


Pro Potentia - For Power

by MarlasSett



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1930s, 1940s, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/F, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Manipulative OC, SI, Self-Insert, Slow To Update, Time Travel, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort, WWII, War, War Profiteering, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), Wizarding World (Harry Potter), World War II, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 61,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24258847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarlasSett/pseuds/MarlasSett
Summary: He'd been wandering London for weeks when he sees him. The pale faced child with wispy black hair, skinny shoulders covered in threadbare clothing. He’s soft in the way children are, but amidst the gaggle of little bodies sheltered within the battered gates, he stands with the air of a man grown. Marek glanced at the pinned sign that read ‘Wool’s Orphanage’ and then back at the child. He had seen this boy before, with Evelyn, who insisted on marathoning the films every year, who liked to regale him with stories about the characters. This boy was Voldemort.
Comments: 250
Kudos: 1025
Collections: A Collection of Beloved Inserts, A Labyrinth of Fics, Home of Magnificent Fanfiction, The Best of SI  Oc Fics





	1. Pro Affinitas

_‘Those who know, do. Those that understand, teach.’ –Aristotle_

Tom liked to hear Mr. Canmore speak. It wasn’t the words he uttered or what he uttered that was attention-catching. No, it was the radiating poise behind each word that raptured Tom’s attention and he knew he wasn’t alone in his fascination.

Everyone in the orphanage liked to listen to Mr. Canmore when he spoke. When the words rolled off his tongue like honey, each one clearly enunciated, they all fell silent. It certainly made their learning environment interesting. If reading aloud passages from a heavy textbook in a dusty drab room with an equally drab audience was considered tantamount to Victorian poetry spoken in the King’s hall, then Mr. Canmore was the famous orator and them, the lords and ladies in said hall. Perhaps, he was exaggerating the comparison a little bit but Canmore was a high-class novelty to an orphanage that has only ever heard the tongues of slum dwellers and poor working women.

It didn’t hurt that he was handsome—if the matron and female staff’s indiscreet tittering and stares were any indications. He’d seen them walk past the classroom short of a dozen times just to hear him. Even Missus Cole, that shrew, passed by once or twice.

Tom could hardly wait for another lecture today. It wouldn’t be for another hour, but Mr. Canmore was due to arrive soon.

For now, he waited in his room. His attention split between staring out the window to the street down below and to the book in his lap. He thumbed the edge of its pages, delicately slipping a finger underneath a page and flipping. He had already read this book a dozen times. Another philosophy book, one in a line of books Mr. Canmore had assigned him.

The man was—is the most interesting adult Tom had ever met so far in his short, driveling life. He arrived months ago, shortly after Easter, and surprisingly _stayed_. Their previous teachers couldn’t be bothered to impart enough material to even make up a full subject, much less devote months teaching unwanted orphans. At most, they stayed for a few weeks before deeming their moral and philanthropic obligation to them was fulfilled and went away.

This was the first time he or the others, had ever received such comprehensive and complete tutelage across the board. Canmore didn’t hold back anything from them. From letters to algebra to financials, he taught them things they didn’t know and certainly never thought about. Where the others floundered, overwhelmed by an adult taking such singular focus in their education, Tom bloomed like a wallflower finally getting the attention it deserved. He thrived in the plethora of new information, gleeful and daunted, though he would never admit it aloud. He advanced well ahead of the others, empowered by new challenges and Canmore took notice.

Admittedly, he felt more satisfied with his lot in these past few months than he has in all his life. If not because of what he was learning, then because of the thrum of satisfaction he got every time those looks of jealousy are sent his way. _Humph_ , he had little care what those louts thought about him. Let them stew in their envy from afar. He earned Canmore’s attention with pride and merit rather than embarrassing displays of self-pity and mediocre flattery.

They seem to have failed to understand what Tom already knew, Canmore had no appreciation for weakness. It was clear since the beginning that he had no sympathy to spare. Other adults might make a show of false compassion at the poor orphans, or thinly veiled disdain at their unwashed appearances but Canmore treated them dispassionately and fairly.

Since that very first day, when he looked out at them and regarded them with amber-brown eyes, nearly glinting gold under dark brows, he commanded respect, obedience, and effort. Robert, the fool, made the mistake of trying to usurp the man’s command in class like he’d done to his predecessors before him. It only took being the focus of a pair of chilly eyes and a near silent hiss before he cowed. Pathetic.

Canmore took Tom under his wing in the following weeks, giving him more advanced lessons that left the other children in the dust. Once a week, he would give Tom a book to keep. A fortnight ago, it was a book about chemistry. The week before, he gave Tom what he currently held in his hands; _A Treatise of Human Nature_ by David Hume. Today, he would give him another. They were always superior to the torn and smudged books that he had to share with the orphans and far more interesting in subject. He liked to smell the ink of the books’ pages and press his fingers against their hard covers.

Tom shut the book in his hands and carefully laid it on top of a stack of other books. They were arranged neatly on his bedside table. His small collective library, though it would grow given time. When the others saw it, they complained to Missus Cole about favoritism and she had made a tizzy about him receiving gifts to Canmore, complaining about his misbehavior. His strange and unnatural gifts. How he hated that vile woman and those moronic imbeciles! Instead of listening to them, Canmore waved her concerns away.

_“I'm trying to see the matter in your words Missus Cole but all I hear are the words of jealous children,” said Canmore, with a raised brow. “ You should be happy that a child in your care is an academic prodigy. I haven’t seen an ounce of madness or strangeness in Tom. He’s demonstrated a need for challenging subjects that put him ahead of his peers. A very intelligent boy for his age, though his education in so far has been lacking. It would be remiss of me, as an educator, not foster a love of knowledge that could secure his future on the account of his envious peers, wouldn’t you agree? Of course, if the others were to show the same drive for advanced lessons, I would give it to them.”_

At Canmore’s unapologetic reply, Missus Cole had pursed her lips in displeasure and excused herself. She couldn’t have pushed the issue lest she angered the man and caused him to leave. The others tried but they couldn’t usurp his position with Canmore either. He would never allow it, not like before. Before, he didn’t care. What favor they wanted with subpar teachers who couldn’t be bothered to properly teach, he let them have. But not Canmore, a man who wasn’t fooled by their pathetic attempts to gain favor. Even he recognized Tom’s superiority and maturity. And Tom, well Tom afforded the man some measure of respect. Canmore was the first person he met that he could honestly say was worthy of it. He understood knowledge was power, and he freely gave it to Tom. One day, Tom would leave these bleak and grey walls, and he would take it and the books with him. He would put them to use. He would search for his father. A powerful and intelligent man, he imagined—like Canmore. But special like him.

Tom heard the swing of rusty metal gates and glanced outside of his bedroom window. It was the familiar form of his teacher; tall, brown-haired with skin a shade darker than Tom’s. Once more, Canmore was wrapped in cleanliness and wealth like those men in the richer parts of London, in their expensive black coats and fancy hats, moving in a flurry like the world needed to catch up to them or at leisure, lazy paces as if they had all the time and luxury in the world. Even though Canmore looked like them, Tom, however, thought he was unlike anyone he’d ever met. There was nothing hurried or lazy about his teacher, only confidence, and an air of mystery. 

He took his cue. Lessons would be starting soon.

Today’s lesson was Roman history. Tom went through the familiar motions and sat in the corner to read. Occasionally, he would glance up from his text to observe the lecture Canmore was giving. Jealous looks were thrown at him and he smirked behind his book. When class was over, they dispersed for lunch. Canmore handed him a new book and told him there was no advanced lesson as he would be speaking with Missus Cole. Taking the book, he went to the mess hall. He ate his pitiful portion of dry rice and chicken, caressing the new book next to him and ignoring the other orphans’ looks. As he was walking back to his room, Missus Cole called him into her office. He trailed after her and entered, finding Canmore sitting in a chair.

The matron had a conflicting look of disdain and relief. She spoke.

“Tom today is Mr. Canmore's last day with the orphanage. He will be taking a long sabbath and as such will no longer be teaching.”

She fell silent, saying nothing more. Tom’s eyes narrowed. Looking to Canmore, he met the man’s gaze that revealed nothing. After a pause, Canmore spoke.

“I want to adopt you Tom. What do you think of it?”

Tom said nothing, staring at the man blankly but his mind was racing. This was Missus Cole’s doing! She wanted to get rid of him!

At Tom's silence, Canmore said. “Missus Cole if you don’t mind.”

The matron pursed her lips in displeasure, clearly indignant at being dismissed from her own office but said nothing. Favoring them with another look, she left. Before Canmore could continue Tom interrupted.

“I refuse,” he said coolly. He didn’t want to be adopted. He didn’t owe Canmore anything and he didn’t need a _father_. Adults couldn’t be trusted, he’s seen that. Children were adopted and returned. Some returned with hidden bruises or former shadows of themselves. He still remembered Carol, a girl one year his senior adopted two years ago when she was nine. She was bright eyed, pretty blond, and popular. She came back with eyes that darted around in fear and shying away from the touch of men. No! He refused to be adopted. Better the enemy he knew than the one he didn’t. 

Canmore didn’t get indignant at his refusal or lack of excitement.

“You’re free to do so,” he said. “However, you may want to reconsider.”

Not likely, thought Tom disdainfully. But he froze at Canmore’s next words.

“You’re not the only one with strange gifts Tom,” said Canmore. At Tom's frozen silence, the corners of his lips pulled up into a smile. “You can do things others can’t do. Things they can’t explain, other than label them unnatural.”

Canmore stood from the chair and came to a crouch in front of Tom. Tom fought the urge to retreat. The man lifted his right hand in front of him. After a beat, Tom watched as a ball of light formed in the palm of his hand, smaller than a marble. But so bright! He stared in shock until it disappeared and then favored Canmore with the same expression. His fingers were trembling.

“You—?” He cut himself off. Of course. Of course! In the billions of humans that were living today, it was arrogant of him to assume that he and his father were the only ones with this power. Unless,

“You’re my father?” He asked eagerly. Canmore eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“I’ve sired two children, both of them were girls,” he said. “They were nothing like you or I. In fact, you are the first person I’ve encountered that was like me.”

Tom shoved his disappointment down and schooled his expression. This changed everything. Canmore was like him. Special! That meant he had to go with him. It would be the height of foolishness not to do so. He could learn from him. That ball of light couldn’t be the only thing he knew. 

It was hard not to contain the gleeful smile, and he didn’t. Canmore returned it.

“I take it that you accept,” he said.

Swallowing, Tom replied. “Of course.”

“Then,” he said standing, Canmore called for Missus Cole and told her to pull up the adoption papers. They filled out the necessary paperwork and Canmore signed. No sooner was his signature placed, that the matron snatched and filed it away. She was no doubt eager to be rid of Tom and the feeling was mutual.

Tom barely restrained himself from running to his room. Packing what clothing he owned and his books, he shoved them in a sack. He left everything else behind without a backward glance. The grey bedding, the grey walls, the aging drawer, the dirty window, and the pilfered toys he’d stolen from the other orphans when they tested him. He’d promised one day that he’d leave this place and that day had come. Not in the way he’d preferred but he’d take what was given. As he made his way to the main entrance of the orphanage, he was treated to burning looks of jealousy and in some cases, tears. Obviously, the word had gotten around. Hah! Once, they’d jeered that he’d never be adopted because he was unnatural. The biggest irony, the handsome intelligent _normal_ man they adored was unnatural like him.

Canmore stood by the entrance in his black coat, teaching bag in one hand and adoption papers in the other. He nodded at Tom and beckoned him to follow, leading him down the steps to a waiting automobile and driver. After settling in the back seat next to Canmore, Tom took one last glance at Wool’s Orphanage.

_Good riddance._


	2. Pro Regeneratione

_I was born the day I thought: What is? What was? And what if? - Suzy Kassem_

For a kid at the tender age of nine, Tom Riddle was unnervingly observant. His brown eyes didn't waver from Marek, and Marek felt as though he was being pulled apart and examined under a microscope. He kept his expression blank and continued the lecture fluidly, periodically making eye contact with the boy. It wouldn't do to start acting like prey. Already, the boy was displaying an inclination to sociopathy. 

He had no friends among the other orphans, preferring his solitude but that had more to do with his sense of superiority. Granted, the other children weren't playing nice either. They called him a freak and avoided him or tried to bully him like Robert did. Tom ignored many of them but the bullies like Robert who crossed him...well, whatever was done to him, whoever did it to him, was met with a swift and exacting retribution. Oh, you would never be able to prove that he did anything untoward. But you only had to observe how the victim skirted around him to know. Earlier he’d seen the discoloration on Robert's left jawline and neck. The older boy had gone out of his way to sit in a corner of the class, the furthest away from Tom. Marek was mildly impressed, but unsurprised. Robert had been asking for it for months.

No nine-year-old should be able to beat a tall, stocky, sixteen-year-old like Robert, not physically at least. But this wasn’t just any nine-year-old. This was a child of magic and the beginning of a dangerous Dark Lord. 

He hadn’t believed it back when he first awoken. He hadn’t believed when he first saw the boy. It was supposed to be fiction. The films, the books, the villain, the _magic_. Yet, here was this boy, a product of fiction and he was as r _eal_ as Marek. 

Three months ago, he thought it was some fluke of a cosmic nature, an impossible science. That somehow in the middle of his car flipping—the explosion was so destructive, so fast, it opened a wormhole that killed him and spat his soul back into the past. Or maybe that it was the providential hand of God that led to his reincarnation.

He woke in a strange room in an unfamiliar bed; in the body of a man ten years his junior; enveloped in the embrace of an aging woman; and with the notion of Arthur, someone he somehow knew wasn't returning. Unintentionally, he'd stolen Arthur's body, shoved his spirit aside and took control. Or perhaps Arthur had already vacated and left behind an empty husk. According to his "father", they hadn't expected him to wake. 

He considered that maybe he and Arthur had merged. He has Arthur’s memories on top of his own. Even more disturbing, he considered that perhaps he was Arthur himself. Arthur who had Marek's memories. A soul born in the past, reborn in the future as Marek, reborn again in the past as Arthur and somehow obtaining memories of his next life? Past life? 

It made him wonder if he was one soul being recycled. The idea made a strange sort of sense. That he was born in different times; born, living, and dying every second. That he existed as multiple people all at once in the past, present, and future. That he was both Arthur and Marek; and Arthur's mother and father; and Marek's wife and daughters; and the maids, the gardener, and the mailman; and the child selling newspapers and the constable on his horse; and the whore and the man who used her; and every emperor and every slave. He was and is his own rapist and murderer. Every crime ever committed, he did it to himself; every good ever done, he'd done it to himself. 

At the very notion, he had laughed himself into a fit. Arthur’s parents were half convinced he’d lost his mind by then. Normal people didn’t stare at the ceiling for hours on end and then burst into fits of laughter. He reassured them multiple times that he didn’t need a doctor. 

When Marek regained enough strength to move from his bed, he tried to go through the motions of daily living. Playing pretend with Arthur’s parents was exhaustive and he quickly lost his patience. The disorientation and confusion ebbed away and became angrier than he’d ever been. His wife, his children, his career, his home! He had died and was now temporally displaced and these people wanted to discuss the distinction between tea flavors?! They desperately wished for him to be himself. Yet, on the off chance that Arthur returned, did they think Marek was just going to relinquish this body? 

He wouldn’t. He would fight for it with all he had. Why should he die a second time and risk ending up further in the past? He was in 1930s London. If events happened as they did in his original time, then WWII was around the corner. He counted himself lucky, aware that it could have been worse. His current life as Arthur was that of a gentleman from a “respectable” family; they were wealthy and secure. He didn’t have to struggle to eat. He didn’t have to join the army on the grounds of his “intermittent illness”. He didn’t end up a slave on the Transatlantic or a Salem witch on a burning stake. What’s the guarantee that God wouldn’t use his next rebirth as a chance to correct his mistake?

 _No,_ thought Marek, _he would fight for this body._

So, he stopped living as Arthur. He dove headlong into the present and did what Marek Canmore would do. He armed himself with information and charm. He read through newspapers, fervently keeping up with current events. He ingratiated himself with Arthur's peers and made new ones. He finished Arthur’s half-assed attempt at a doctorate and obtained his PhD in record time. It was pure luck that Marek was also a doctor in his time.

Arthur’s parents didn’t appear disconcerted by the 180. They were just glad he was no longer staring at plaster and decided to rejoin polite society. He was acting like the proper elitist; putting on airs for the masses. They looked so proud. Marek did what they wanted if it aligned with his goals. If he had to attend a cricket match in the afternoon and a soiree in the evening, he did it if it benefited him with information and whatever sparked his curiosity. In the end, he could even say he beginning to enjoy himself.

Where he once despaired his rebirth, now he embraced it. It was a heady feeling this newfound freedom. Thrilling, to have a start fresh as a younger, richer, and handsomer man. No responsibilities other than what he gave himself. No children to care for. No need to work himself ragged only to come home to a distant wife. He fucked who he wanted, from the high society wives cuckolding their husbands to the maids changing his bed sheets. He should be ashamed that he didn't think about his family anymore. He isn't.

He did as he pleased, moving toward a level of contentment he hadn’t thought possible in this new life. It was at that point that the unexpected happened.

He recalled the day he first saw Tom. It had been a good day for a walk. Clear skies, clean air, and jovial voices lending buoyancy to it. He decided to take a stroll because why not? Marek walked along the flow of people; hands tucked in his pockets. Behind him, Richard, his chauffeur, had followed and they left the car and shopping center.

They walked until the buildings began to look a little run down. Across the street from them, children played in a courtyard surrounded by gates, a grey building looming over them. When Richard suggested for them to head back, he nodded. That’s when he saw him. The pale faced child with wispy black hair, skinny shoulders covered in threadbare clothing. He was soft in the way children are, but amidst the gaggle of little bodies sheltered within the battered gates, he stood with the air of a man grown. Marek glanced at the pinned sign that read ‘Wool’s Orphanage’ and then back at the child. Rooted to the spot, he thought—no, knew he’d seen the boy before. With Evelyn, who insisted on marathoning the films every year; who liked to regale him with stories about the characters. 

He went to scoff at himself for the ridiculous thought and stopped. Perhaps it was the _familiar_ expressionless mask upon the boy’s face or the name on the building, but Marek reconsidered. An inkling of disbelief pulsed through him and he furrowed his brows. 

Voldemort! _Magic!_ He hadn't considered that magic brought him back. Why would he when such a thing didn't exist!

He jerked when Richard called him. Waving the man's concerns away, Marek retraced his footsteps back the way he came. Magic wasn't real. Extraordinary, phenomenal events have happened but time travel? reincarnation? No such thing could be possible. And if they were, he speculated, if magic made such things possible, why the hell was Voldemort so afraid of dying in the movies? 

As he was driven home, Marek pushed all thoughts of magic from his mind. 

. . .

He lasted three days before he went back to the orphanage. He’d done well forgetting the child until a glass cup had fallen over and he hurried to catch only for it to levitate inches above the ground. He’d been alone in the room. 

After experimenting hours later, he was able to levitate the cup intentionally. Deciding he could no longer fool himself, Marek visited the orphanage and offered to teach. The matron had looked dubious about his offer--what noble gentleman would be caught dead working? But the prospect of two pounds a week and a teacher volunteering made her decision easy. 

Half a year later, he’d decided teaching wasn’t so bad if he was teaching Tom. The boy was obviously brilliant, absorbing everything like a sponge. Had he been born in the latter half of the 20th century, he would've been skipping grades in school. Today, Marek decided he was going to adopt him. He spent months trying to cultivate a relationship with Tom. Not in overt ways, but he took advantage of the fact that Tom loved to learn. It started with Mathematics. Marek gave pop quizzes here and there, throwing in hard questions that he knew only Tom could answer. Then, he put him ahead of his peers with extra lessons. He gave him a book or two once a week to make him look like a favorite. 

He wanted to say that ultimately it was for an altruistic reason but that was a lie. He was doing it to ensure his own survival. Tom Riddle was going to be powerful one day and Marek would be there with him.


	3. Pro Respice Prolem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interludes

_Every man's reputation proceeds from those of his own household - Marcus Tullius Cicero_

“They think I’m your bastard?” said Tom, clearly unimpressed. 

Marek looked on, amused.

It was late in the afternoon and they were lounging in a private solar in his family's townhouse in London. Tom was leaning on the sofa with his feet up, a book clutched in his hands. He was frowning severely; which Marek couldn’t help thinking was precious. He marveled at their progress. Most of the time, getting a response from Tom, verbal or otherwise, was like pulling teeth; the boy was so fiercely guarded and independent. That Tom was comfortable enough in his presence to recline and reveal his emotions, was indeed progress. A far cry from his seclusion three months before. Despite his eagerness to practice magic, Tom kept a tight lid on it. Marek suspected he was exercising his powers on his own before asking for help. 

"Makes for a great story, doesn't it? The _handsome_ gentleman and his secret _love child_."

"It's a scandal. They think I’m the result of a tryst you had with a maid."

"Just so."

"And you'll let it stand?!"

"I'm not terribly concerned about their opinions. People will always spread rumors to watch others disgrace themselves. Elitists happen to take an inordinate amount of pleasure from it. They have nothing better to do." 

"You told me maintaining a stellar reputation was vital. Being known as your bastard won't help."

"Ahh, but you already have all the disadvantages, what's one more?"

Tom was glaring now. Marek sighed.

"People will always have misconceptions about you Tom; it's not that they exist, it's that you know they do and can use them to your advantage."

"How can being known as your bastard be an advantage?"

"Well, when you're a bastard no one expects things from you, so they'll underestimate you. You can use that lack of scrutiny to make subtle moves that put you in a position of power over them. Then, use your position to create your own fortune. For now, just charm them. Most people will loosen their guard when confronted with polite, handsome little boys."

Should he really be advising and _encouraging_ future Voldemort on the art of social manipulation? Probably not, but Marek didn’t feel obligated to deter him either. It would be exhausting for him, and Tom wouldn’t let his words stop him anyway.

Tom was still glaring, eyes narrowed, but—.

"This soiree...what is it like?"

Marek shrugged.

"A fancy party. Expect lots of pandering, politicking, and verbal stabbing under a thin veneer of civility. If we're lucky, the wine will be fair, and someone will have a bigger scandal than our own." 

"Hm."

* * *

Marek hadn’t been worried; Tom was a natural. Of course, that had been obvious. But it was one thing to know and another thing to watch him spin his web. He still needed work on the nuances—as he was a bit direct and a little obvious, but the hazy eyed indulgent eyes didn’t suspect anything nefarious—so potential. 

A woman with a Chesire smile and stain lips, sidled up to him with a glass.

“Oh, Mr. Willaby, or shall I say doctor?”

_That god-awful name again._

Marek’s face twitched minutely, but his pleasant smile didn’t falter. 

Naturally, now and again he would regress and introduce himself as Marek Canmore. That had been the case at the orphanage; and though it was of little consequence to him, because he always justified it as an alias for some of his work, it still caused the occasional hiccup when he was referred to as ‘Arthur’ in the same company. He wasn’t planning on changing it, however. If there was one thing he would hold onto determinedly in this life, it would be his name. He liked it; it was certainly more distinguished than Arthur Willaby. _Ridiculous_. 

Marek was for _‘Mars and warlike’_ and Canmore for _‘big head or chief_ ’. It was a royal’s name, traced back ages to Malcolm III Canmore, father of Duncan II, a King of Scotland. At some point in his family history, in his previous life cycle, he was a descendant of royals. So yes, he liked his name. 

He had explained it to Tom another way when the boy questioned it.

_“Why do they call you Arthur?” asked Tom._

_“Arthur is the name given to me at birth. Duty obliges that I respond to it, however, it's not really...me, or who I think I am. I can’t explain it. I woke up one day, and I knew myself only as Marek Canmore and nothing else; it felt...feels like an inherent part of me...like magic.” He said._

_He threw that word in there for good measure. Inquisitive and perceptive as Tom was, he was still a ten-year-old child. He tended not to question things related to magic too strongly, such was his belief in it. And Marek’s couldn’t very well tell him that he was a reincarnated soul, now could he?_

_“It suits you better,” said Tom.  
_

_“Aye,” said Marek._

Still, Arthur Willaby was this body’s given name and Marek performed its role. He turned to the woman.

“Ms. Granberty. Pleasant evening, I hope.”

“Without a doubt, as is the present company.” She smiled coyly at him.

Marek placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“Indeed, may I introduce you to Tom Riddle, my ward” he said, gesturing. “Tom, I present Ms. Florence Granberty.”

Florence Granberty’s smile thinned. 

If nothing else, Tom was a good deterrent. 

* * *

Three months living with Marek and Tom was now fairly acquainted with how the other side lived. He slept late, in a warm, soft bed in his own room; he dressed well in fabric that cost more than the orphanage could make in a year from charity; he ate porridge that was thick and filled with honey, no longer the thin, watery scraps from before; others tended to his needs; and he was, if he was religious, _blessedly_ left to his own devices. 

Marek didn’t leave him alone too long. The man had shown him the solar filled with books and that’s where Tom spent his time learning lessons. 

Where he also learned _magic_.

* * *

“Don’t try to force it,” said Marek, somewhere in the darkness.

His warm breath caressed Tom’s cheek. Normally, Tom wouldn’t appreciate the proximity, but it was soothing. Guiding him.

“You need to picture it. Remember the anatomy charts I showed you. Picture the arteries and veins in your arm. Now imagine, instead of blood flowing through them, it's your magic. Think of your magic as...a running stream...a warm and luminescent current...and it's moving toward your palm for a gathering.”

Tom’s palm was tingling. A web light of light filmed over his hand, faintly glowing. 

“Now imagine the gathering is taking the shape of a ball above your palm.”

Were he to see his face now, he knew it would be creased with tension. His hand was slightly trembling, but he could see; the web of light was advancing and condensing into a single point that grew and grew. 

“That’s it...very good, brilliant Tom.” Marek cooed over him.

The point was now spherical, slightly larger than a marble. Unlike the orb of light Marek had shown him, his was dull and murky, like white light behind a fog or curtain. It was something but not enough.

“Good, but isn’t very bright, is it? Why don’t you try increasing the brightness? You can do so fast, like flipping a switch; or as slow as you prefer, like turning up the flame of an oil lamp. Go on and choose.”

Choose? Which was the better the choice? 

“Which one? What should I choose?” asked Tom.

“Does it matter?” Marek said, drawling. 

Tom nearly risked at glance at the man. It didn’t matter, he decided, since both would lead to the same result. With that thought, he chose to flip the switch. 

There was heat.

A blinding light.

He heard glass shattering.

Tom gasped as he was nearly thrown off his feet. He felt Marek steady him in the darkness and then leave his side. Light flooded the room. 

Marek stood on the far side of the room near the door. He was smirking. 

“Well that was explosive!” said Marek, gesturing with his arms. He appeared unbothered with the pieces of porcelain littering the floor and the faint smell of smoke. 

"It didn't work," said Tom, frustration slipping into his voice. 

"I wouldn't say that," said Marek. "You almost had it, it worked just not as you expected. Do you know why?"

Tom’s expression remained pinched. 

"Must everything be a lesson?"

"If you want to learn."

Tom said nothing, mulling over an answer. This was how Marek taught: he would guide him through a practical and then ask him why something did or didn't work. Already, Tom learned to move objects at will and how to lock and unlock doors. Marek sent all the servants home one night, locked all the doors, and placed obstacles in his path for practice. Finally, he spoke.

"I lost control."

Marek nodded and approached him. Bringing his left hand up, he instantly created a ball of light. 

"This is easy for me to do now, just like flipping a light switch. But the first time I tried, the result was the same as yours, explosive—”

“—I tried it again and again, with the same result until I exhausted myself. Then, I realized I was failing because I was only concerned with making light, not how much of it. At first when I pictured, I envisioned light illuminating the whole room much like what is happening now. But it was too much, too fast.” 

Marek dropped his hands.

“You see, even the light in this room is controlled; it has boundaries. It's maintained at a specific voltage, with a certain level of brightness, and it will only illuminate to a certain distance before it loses its strength—”

"— Did you feel the heat coming off your ball of light? Do you smell the smoke lingering?”

Tom nodded. 

"You overloaded your little marble until it became a ball of fire and then had it to expand outwards without bounds.”

Part of that was due to his own impatience, realized Tom. He’d nearly succeeded until the end; when he rushed to illuminate the room, much the way a light bulb would do. He was expecting magic to work the way he understood things were supposed to work. Magic didn’t follow an order, but it appeared to have rules.

With locking and unlocking, he didn't need to imagine anything. The mechanism was there in front of him, so all he did was will his magic to turn the bolt. But creating a light source, out of nothing—

"Start slow to learn control and you'll realize the difference it makes when you picture the effects of flipping a switch versus that of adjusting the flame of an oil lamp."

Marek was entirely too useful. His teaching and demonstrations only reinforced the belief that Tom made the right choice, the _only_ choice. Had he chosen to stay at the orphanage, he would have missed learning from such an invaluable source. _This was…this was right_.

Marek prompted him to try again. Tom did the same as before, imagining a current flowing through his arm and gathering in his palm. It was easier this way, then trying to will it to work. Again, a murky little sphere appeared in the center of his hand, but this time, he urged it to stay solid, cool as water, and slowly increased its brightness. 

Slowly.

And slowly.

Until, it was bright; not like Marek’s, but enough to satisfy him. He let it disappear and a wave of tiredness crashed in him. Exhausted, he looked to Marek.

The man flashed him a smile and Tom flooded with a _need_. 

* * *

There is an owl on his dining table, Marek observed.

Really, he should’ve been expecting it. A year went by and then it was Tom’s birthday again and _why did he forget?_

_“How in the almighty did it get in here?!”_ said Margaret, screeching. She and the other maids were making shooing motions at the bird. It ruffled its feathers in indignation before flying over to land on the head of a chair, in front of Tom.

Marek sighed.

It couldn’t be helped now, and he needed to help Tom compose his letter. 


	4. Pro Magus

_‘There is a snake lurking in the grass.” – Virgil_  
  
  
Marek is exceedingly aware of the prejudice and racism that was so flagrant among the people of Britain; among the rest of Europe and the world at large. It was as shamefully virulent as it was subtle. Hilter may be the figurehead of racial prejudice, but he certainly wasn’t the only one. His ‘parents’, Richard, and even _‘saint’_ Margaret were all racists. They spoke imperiously about _lesser_ folk—in front of Learie, a man of African descent, that worked the grounds of his townhouse—not only in terms of money, but race.  
  
The prejudice had long existed and would persist for the foreseeable future. There were always going to be supremacists and now, in this life, he was born into such a family. In modern day, poor men didn’t step off the sidewalk just because he was passing by; and black folk didn’t pause in their steps and turn the other way because he was a rich gentleman and they weren't supposed to meet his eyes. But this wasn’t the modern era and those were the very occurrences that were happening to him now; they happened so often the unease that settled in his chest was becoming a near permanent fixture and he found himself highly irritated.  
  
He was privileged to be born as he is, a man, wealthy, and white; immune to the injustice. Still, even those traits would not help him in the magical world. Afterall, wizards just had a different idea of what was _inferior, lesser,_ and _tainted_. Their laws were skewed to favor wealthy purebloods, and magical abuse—like the constant and unchecked oblivation of muggles—was virtually unrestricted. Were Marek to be inducted into their world as he is now, in this age of _Grindelwald_ , so very muggle and virtually powerless in terms of magical strength, he would be at the very bottom of the totem pole, along with supposed ‘half breeds,’ and house elves. At worst, some would consider him a mudblood; at best, he would be condescended as being a helpless muggle, who had no business shopping for himself in a wizarding store.  
  
That was not ideal.  
  
And so, it was with those misgivings in mind, that Marek bound his own letter to Tom’s response, to send to the Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts. He feigned ignorance and let the words shape the reader’s perception of him. It read like this:  
  
  
 _To the Deputy Headmaster Albus Dumbledore,_  
  
 _I am the guardian of a prospective student of your school. As you can imagine, I am rather shocked at the idea of a magical school, and even more so at a magical world. We have seen no sign of an existing magical community and never have I heard of an institution by the name of Hogwarts. But I have seen my son's peculiar and fantastic displays; they are enough for me to believe.  
  
In light of my ward’s acceptance into Hogwarts, I feel compelled to learn all that I can about this new and perplexing world we have both decided to embrace. Won’t you answer some questions I have?  
  
I cannot imagine that Tom is the only child from an honored family, such as mine, to have attracted the attention of your institution, therefore, surely you must have an introductory packet or way of acclimation for those families who lack magic but have members with the ability?  
  
If not, please direct me to the Office or person responsible for acting as a liaison. I wish to have a thorough understanding of the laws and customs that govern your world and what Tom must now abide by.  
  
Do you have any resources or tools that would acquaint us?  
  
Where is the school’s locale? Is it easily accessible to concerned parents, safe, and reputable? As my heir, Tom's wellbeing and reputation are of utmost importance to me.  
  
What is included in the curriculum? I have read the list of required materials: History of Magic, Magical Theory, potions. I will admit Sir, it all sounds like drivel to me, and I am hard-pressed to dismiss the idea of magical education, but I digress.  
  
Where may I purchase the listed uniforms and supplies?  
  
Does your school teach any proper subjects at all? Tom is exceptionally well versed in mathematics and chemistry. I think he would be delighted to advance in either subject at a higher level, as will I.  
  
Do you have any universities following graduation from Hogwarts? How does the curriculum prepare them for entrance exams? Do you have apprenticeships? What career paths can Tom expect to hold? I can only hope that you have the equivalent of a doctor or businessman, or perhaps roles in a more official capacity.  
  
These are but a few among the very many questions I have. For now, I will be satisfied with answers to the above questions as I deem them crucial to my ward's future.  
  
Also Sir, my family, friends, and household are not and will not be of like mind as I, when it comes to Tom's 'gifts', as befits their Christian sensibilities. I urge you to be discreet and utilize the post, and do not feel pressed to visit my household. Please, do not, as they will not welcome you.  
  
I look forward to and will be expecting your response.  
  
Yours truly,  
  
  
Arthur Willaby_  
 _Commissioner of Willaby Estates & Fortune_  
  
  
The concerned inquiries of a muggle father, aware and perplexed by his ward’s magic, and tolerant if a bit skeptical of its exploration. Affluent, curious, and relatively harmless. That was the impression Marek was going for.  
  
 _Dumbledore would likely buy it_ , Marek thought. It was a simple and innocuous cover that would give him leave to fish for information and allow him to keep his magical anonymity. At least this way, he wouldn’t draw undue attention by making a faux pas, or giving anyone the impression that he was a muggleborn or a muggle. He wanted to pass as a half blood for as long as possible because that was better than being completely muggle born and thus ending up at the end of a bigot's wand just for breathing. Neither did he plan on relying on anyone's benevolence while navigating wizarding society.  
  
It was a conversation he would need to have with Tom soon, but that would have to wait until after they've visited Diagon Alley. He didn’t know why this time was different, but Marek was glad it wasn’t a professor that delivered the letter. Until such a time, he felt reasonably secure in his footing and _defensive_ ability while stepping into the magical community; Arthur Willaby would play the befuddled and very _curious_ parent, and Marek Canmore would polish and groom every aspect of himself.  
  
He would learn enough to establish a solid identity and to be better than the average wizard. Then he could formally reveal himself. By that point, he would have built a reputation and ingrained himself with the powers that be.  
  
It would take years, but he would put himself on par with the likes of Grindelwald, Voldemort, and Dumbledore.  
  
Some might call him an egoist. And so what?! He spent 35 years living modestly and obliging his moral and familial duties. _Be good. Go to church. Get a degree. Get married. Be faithful. Father children. And so on and so forth._  
  
Being good was enough for one lifetime.  
  
This time, he wanted to be _strong_. To be _powerful_! To cause change. He had the potential and now he had the _means_.  
  
Shortly after sending the owl off with his and Tom’s letters, he bemusedly weathered Tom’s fervent excitement and questions. _Yes, the letter appears to be genuine. No, he’s never been to Hogwarts. And yes, he intends to find the means to learn magic on his own._ Marek got the response to his letter by post a week later. He left it until the evening, dismissed the rest of his household, and made sure Tom was in bed. After reading the letter—Dumbledore had deftly and thoroughly answered all his questions, good man—he placed it back into its envelope and onto his bedside table, next to an extensive to-do list.  
  
Most of what Dumbledore had written were things that he already knew. The school was a hidden castle in Scotland; supposedly the “safest” fortress in the world. Muggle parents could visit their children, provided they had an escort. The curriculum is split by levels and as a first year Tom would have seven classes to attend over the course of a week. They didn’t have mathematics or chemistry, but arithmancy and potions came close. There were no magical universities in Britain. Owls and Newts prepared students for apprenticeships or enabled them to attain their desired jobs. Supplies could be purchased in Diagon Alley, accessible through the Leaky Cauldron on Charing Cross Road in London. Convenient. It was a 10-minute drive from his townhouse.  
  
What he hadn’t known about was the Muggle Liaison Office; a division designed for wizard-muggle relations. He didn’t know all about the training and apprenticeships required in each magical field, but Dumbledore provided him a brief description of what getting a mastery in each field entailed; that made the letter several pages long. Dumbledore concluded by entreating him to send further questions his way.  
  
It wasn’t enough, but it was a start  
  


* * *

  
He shared what he learned with Tom, because that's what he always did. He passed the letter the following morning while they ate breakfast together and patiently watched the boy read through it. Information was currency he almost never hid from Tom and the letter's contents were things that he needed to know anyway. He did it not only to ensure that Tom could make informed decisions—since he always decided things for himself—but to continue cultivating Tom's trust in him. He liked to think that in the two years they've been together, that he's cemented Tom's loyalty, but honestly, he's not sure how the boy really feels about him.  
  
Gratitude and respect, certainly. Sometimes he’d catch a hint of admiration and jealousy when Marek performed some feat of magic. Marek hoped to nurture affection, but love...he didn't know if that was possible. _He didn't know a lot of things,_ he thought with some anxiety. The best he could envision from a future Voldemort was obsession, and that was downright dangerous. Would Voldemort even exist in a few years time? The timeline was significantly altered and Tom may not have the same ideals to fuel his future campaigns. His motivations would be different.  
  
“Marek."  
  
He turned toward his companion.  
  
Tom finished reading the letter and set the pages on the table in the space between them. The boy treated him to frown while nibbling his toast.  
  
“Why did you hide your magic ?” he asked.  
  
Marek sipped his juice, taking a moment to respond. Hogwarts knew through magic that Tom existed and is a magical child. But does the Ministry? Does Hogwarts inform the ministry of a potential student once they turn 11? That would make sense as to why for some children like Tom, the first contact they make with the magical world is through the school. He could even imagine that the child's potential is noted at the time of birth. If that was the case…Arthur should have gotten a letter unless his magic manifested too late. That still didn't answer if he appeared in Ministry records.  
  
“Marek,” said Tom. Marek turned to him with a slight sigh.  
  
"Sorry, I think it's safer this way. Let’s be honest Tom, we don’t know what we’re walking into. That letter, while informative, only reinforces the fact that we’re woefully unprepared. It also tells me we’re going to find more people who know magic better than we do.”  
  
Marek might know a great deal from the films, but he didn’t know everything. Much of what he knew was rendered obsolete because he wasn’t even in the canon timeline! Things might have been simpler if he’d been reborn into a magical family; into the body of a Malfoy or a Black, or a Potter. Being a Weasley wouldn’t have been too bad either.  
  
He set his cup down. Meeting Tom's eyes, he asked.  
  
“Aren’t you concerned? They managed to track you down right to the floor and bedroom you sleep in.”  
  
Tom’s frown deepened, like the thought of being tracked down and spied on through magical means had just occurred to him. _Good, he needs to start thinking about how it can be used against him_ , Marek thought. Tom knows how to use magic to hurt people, but he’s yet to understand the consequences. He leaned closer to Tom, making sure the boy met his eyes. He spoke in all seriousness, his voice a near whisper.  
  
“Magic is incredible...it's amazing when it's flowing down the length of your arm and lingering at your fingertips tips, ready to do your bidding. It's empowering to have it bend to your will—”  
  
His eyes didn’t waver from Tom’s.  
  
“—but unfortunately, we are not the only ones with this gift. There will likely always be people bigger and stronger than you Tom."  
  
Tom's eyes narrowed and he was silent for a moment, then he said.  
  
"For now."  
  
Marek was struck silent and could only return Tom's stare. It was an intense and calculating gaze that Tom would often make before pulling things apart. A look that was bare of any childlike innocence and taunted at something more sinister. It always jerkily reminded him that he had a handful of years before Voldemort would manifest, if he manifested. They kept their eyes locked on each other for several long moments before finally,  
  
"For now," Marek relented.  
  
Tom blinked, his face smoothing.  
  
"Should I hide what I know while at Hogwarts?" asked Tom.  
  
"No," said Marek.  
  
“No? You just said—”  
  
“I know. What I said applies more to me than to you. Hogwarts will shape the next several years of your life. So, by all means, excel.”  
  
Tom nodded in understanding. He pushed the letters back to Marek.  
  
“Yes, I will.” He said.  
  
“Most definitely,” said Marek, nodding.  
  
Silence descended over them for several minutes. Tom broke it hesitantly.  
  
"I'll teach you."  
  
"Pardon." asked Marek, eyebrows raised. He looked at Tom with some surprise.  
  
"I said I'll teach you...whatever I learn at Hogwarts, I'll teach you,” said Tom. He kept his chin up and his eyes locked onto Marek as if daring him to laugh.  
  
Marek smiled slightly and replied. "I look forward to it."  
  
Tom made a complicated face as if debating on continuing the subject before changing it entirely.  
  
“When will we go to Diagon Alley?” he asked. “I want to get my wand.”  
  
 _Of course you do,_ Marek thought with some mirth. He can’t say he wasn’t of the same mind. His own giddiness at the thought of owning a wand was nearly bubbling. An actual wand! He wanted to experiment. How did a piece of stick help channel magic? And why did most wizards have to shout spells just to get it to work? In the films, he almost always was left with the impression that it was the wand that was magical, not the wielder himself. The characters, apart from Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Snape, were largely unremarkable.  
  
“After breakfast, I’ll drive us there,” he said.  
  
“Do you know how far it is?”  
  
“It’s a 10 minute drive.”  
  
“We need to get our wands first.”  
  
Marek’s lips twitched. “As you say, my lord.”  
  
It was hard, being wary of a little boy too smart for his own good, who sometimes fell asleep leaning against Marek, and woke with bed hair and indents on his cheek from laying it on a book too long. A boy, who awkwardly promised to share his knowledge. He liked Tom and it was getting harder and harder to see him turning into a megalomaniac.  
  
Breakfast couldn’t end soon enough. They washed up and prepared for their outing. Marek dressed in his best and ensured that Tom did the same. They clothed themselves in dark tailored slacks, dress shirts, and light coats; he checked that their shoes were buffed and polished. What they wore was nothing overly intricate but strayed just on the side of being posh and business ready. Once he was confident that they looked properly well-off, he slipped an envelope in Richard's hand for delivery and headed off with Tom to another car.  
  
It was a half hour before noon, when they reached Charing Cross Road. Marek parked and he and Tom approached a row of shops. The dark and shabby entrance to the Leaky Cauldron was wedged tightly between two other. Steeling himself, Marek pushed his way in and Tom followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That was harder to write than usual. Tom and Marek's dialogue is always difficult to pin down because they're both so aloof. 
> 
> I wanted to focus a little bit on Marek's game plan for navigating wizarding world 1930s-1940s. Tell me how I did!


	5. Pro Initium Novum

' _Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power.' — Seneca_

Tom stood like a monolith as the tapes took his measurements. They sailed smoothly between his arms and legs in quick, economic motions. Unflappable though he appeared, he was near bursting with impatience but contained himself because this was their last stop before he could finally go home and put those books to use! The hours they spent partially exploring Diagon Alley had left him reeling at his ignorance; a whole world hidden in London— _so many magicks!_ —not more than 15 miles from the orphanage _..._ he shook his head. He could have been coming here instead, during those opportune moments he snuck outside the orphanage _._ _What a waste!_

While he lamented his ignorance, every moment spent amongst his people emboldened him. He finally…belonged. Diagon Alley was both all he imagined and not. The Leaky Cauldron was an interesting mix of wizards and some strange vernacular. There was Gringotts, an institution that guarded the collective wealth of magical Britain— _they had dragons!_ And yet, what foolishness drove wizards to leave their wealth and heirlooms in the hands of clearly contemptuous goblins?!

At the bank, while the short creatures sneered at them, Marek exchanged the small fortune of pounds he brought along for a pile of gold and opened accounts under Canmore and Riddle. They each left with a key.

Afterwards, as promised, they visited Ollivander, an old man seemingly as mad as a hatter. But he gave Tom his beautiful, bone-white wand and Marek's ebony. Tom was more than relieved to feel the rush of magic responding to him and bared his teeth at Marek in a grin. After that it was from one shop to the next, collecting the supplies off his school list and then some, until they missed the lunch hour entirely.

Presently, they were in a tailor shop and Tom welcomed the pause and tranquility they found in the place. Situated in a partially secluded and immaculate block in Diagon Alley, _Rogare_ was a far cry from the commotion caused by the obnoxious rabble at Madame Malkins. After seeing the horde, the darting and warring measurements and pins, Marek and Tom had simply turned around. With the map of the alley as their guide, they were able to find Rogare and his shop.

Samuel Rogare, a greying man with a gaunt face and a serene demeanor, bid them welcome, at which Marek politely returned his greeting. Noting the simple and elegant style of robes the proprietor himself was clothed in, Marek requested a complete wizard's wardrobe for himself and Tom. That's why Tom has been standing on the fitting stage for the past few minutes. In the dim and airy fitting room, he listened as Marek and Rogare exchanged words.

"…particular with your clients? You're quite a way from the main center," said Marek.

"I provide my services to any paying witch or wizard. Money is money afterall. I admit however, that many of my clientele are...rather distinguished," said Rogare.

"...Pureblood?"

_Pureblood?_

"As I said, distinguished."

"Pardon me. They appear to be mutually inclusive."

Rogare inclined his head with some deference.

"It is not out of line to say that my patronage are the heirs of the highborn and most noble families, many of whom are indeed pureblood."

Tom's ears twitched at that. _Highborn purebloods? Noble?_ But of course, Marek and himself were nothing common. Were they pureblood?

"...and the boy?"

"My ward. An orphan and…well they didn't know what to do with him. It seemed an injustice to leave him when I could give him more, you understand?"

"Indeed. Oftentimes young men blood themselves in duels or pursue rebellion in the arms of muggle women. Usually, they leave a thing of substance behind—"

Tom caught Marek's nod, as he hummed in agreement.

"—Such is the folly of their youth. It is good that you took the boy. He'll be better prepared."

"Your work is recognizable then?"

"Quite."

Their conversation moved onto colors, fabrics, and wizarding apparel, at which Tom tuned them out. That he would be clad in expensive garments that other highborn would recognize was enough for him. It was only fitting that he looked his best for his introduction to the wizarding world. Often, Marek stressed the importance of first impressions among the upper echelon of Great Britain, and as a ward of a peerage. Even here in this magical place where he clearly belonged, Tom knew impressions and power mattered.

If he wanted to build a future and make a name for himself, he had to play the game like Marek said. He had to make investments and partnerships, and impressions were everything.

Tom stepped off the stage, when the measurements paused, his cue that they had finished their job. After Marek paid Rogare and scheduled a pick up for their wardrobe the following week, they made their way home. It was early evening when Richard greeted them at the door. He reached for their purchases only for Marek to rebuff him.

"A good ride masters?" asked Richard.

"A very productive one. I trust you followed my instructions?" asked Marek.

"To the letter," said Richard with a nod.

"Good. Should anything change with regard to…"

"I will let you know."

"Thank you, Richard."

Tom followed Marek as they made their way to the family wing. He nearly groaned as Richard fell into step behind them.

"The Master and Mistress Willaby will be expecting a visit over the summer halls. Will master personally oversee the preparations?"

"No, I trust you and Margaret to take care of the details."

"Very good master."

"Do send some dinner to the family room Richard. I'm famished, as is Tom."

"Yes master."

They were blessedly left undisturbed for the next hour, apart from the maid bringing them dinner. Tom struggled not to wolf down his meal and glared at Marek's smirking. After satisfying their hunger, they moved to their private solar.

He began arraying their purchases on the table, in order of what he thought most logical. In addition to their wands, his school trunk, and his Hogwarts supplies, they collected additional books on etiquette and customs, laws and regulations, household and general use spells, defensive and offensive spells, concealment charms, and another book on magic theory, outside the required schoolbook.

Tom looked to Marek and Marek returned it with a raised brow.

"Perhaps a study plan," he suggested.

Tom nodded, _as was prudent_.

* * *

"…they have werewolves and vampires running around? Why aren't they restrained?"

"Because despite their natures, they're still intelligent beings capable of thought and emotion. And I doubt they advertise their afflictions, easier to hide…they're probably being persecuted."

"They are dangerous."

"And allegedly, so are Jews and gypsies," Marek quipped.

Tom wrinkled his nose.

"Jews and gypsies are muggles."

"Muggles can be dangerous too. Don't forget a few months ago, they were slaughtering each other in Nanjing."

Tom craned his neck to look at Marek, who sat elevated and behind him; he was reclined on the one of two settees in the solar. Tom was on the floor, propped the seat and surrounded by open books and sheets of notes. The sleeves of Marek's dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows and his copy of "Dark, Dangerous, and Dastardly Creatures" rested on his charcoal vest. At Tom's scrutiny, Marek turned to look at him.

"I doubt a muggle would stand a chance against a wizard," Tom said with judgement.

"I think it would depend on the factors."

He arched a single brow. "Like?"

"Like the element of surprise for one, or the presence of guns. Guns are faster than wand incantations."

At Tom's betrayed look, Marek chuckled, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

"You have to admit Tom, a muggle would triumph if they had the element of surprise and speed."

"Hypothetically speaking, _if_ the wizard lacked proper protections. I don't see how any proper witch or wizard would go without protection."

"People tend to underestimate others and overestimate themselves."

"Hn."

 _So, muggles are dangerous, but they're still inferior to wizards_ , he thought. They had no singular power for their own, using armies and machines to conquer; they fought like rats, scrambling for power they couldn't hope to keep and losing horribly; and they easily gave into fear and pressure. He hadn't thought of the orphanage in a long time, but he still remembered the looks of fear, the terror on Amy, Dennis, and Billy's faces. Tom hadn't needed to touch them to make them hurt, _to make them bend_.

He knew he was more dangerous than Learie, the caretaker who was easily the tallest man around and was a hulking figure with a rake. He'd been taught and groomed by Marek. Marek, whose magic stirred like a coiled serpent; whose magic drowned out voices, wrenched the breath out of lungs, and oppressed the will; whose magic remained serene next to the draconian roar of Tom's own fury. Tom remembered the cool regard in Marek's hooded eyes' as he brushed Tom's stinging cheek, and the red terror on that bint maid's face as she savagely scratched at her throat. Marek hadn't taken his eyes off Tom during the whole episode, hadn't lifted a finger. He simply and ruthlessly crushed her under his feet; and that's why Tom knows muggles are inferior.

Marek spoke, drawing Tom out of his thoughts.

"It says here that, _'Hogwarts' students are forbidden to use their wands during the summer months.'_ "

Tom frowned. _Probably because some fool overestimated himself_ , he thought. It was of little consequence. He could do most of the spells in the first-grade book of spells wandlessly. He didn't need his wand, even if it was supposed to make magic easier.

"That's inconvenient," he replied.

"Yes, but fortunately for you, I'm not a Hogwarts student."

"When are we going to practice then? I need to get ahead or I'll be behind."

"Behind? Tom, you have another month to make a dent in your schoolbooks and you can already cast the standard spells."

Tom shook his head. "I might still be behind. I wasn't raised in the wizarding world. I could be lacking in other areas."

Marek didn't appear to share his concern at all. "I'm confident that none of them will know how to do what you can do. But if you insist, we'll practice."

"I insist," he said.

"Hm, so demanding. You should be proud of yourself. Wandless magic is difficult to master, as you know; hence, many don't master it until they've reached adulthood. You have to be especially disciplined and skilled."

Tom felt some measure of pride at that and smirked. Unbiddenly, he remembered Ollivander's words.

" _I think we must expect great things from you Mr. Riddle."_

 _Yes_ , _you must_.

* * *

In the following week, Tom and Marek revisited Diagon Alley. They stopped to make another deposit at Gringotts and collected their clothing from Rogare. It was followed with an impromptu shopping spree at the bookstore and further exploration of Diagon Alley—Marek had refused to take them into Knockturn Alley, which Tom wholeheartedly agreed with when he glimpsed the filth that lurked about. _Probably had werewolves and vampires too_.

They brought home two companions with them, a pair of young black falcon nestmates. Tom took the male bird for himself and named him Virgil. Marek christened the other Beatrice.

In that time, Marek also received a response to a letter that he had sent to the Muggle Liaison Office. It came in the post simply addressed to Arthur Willaby. Incidentally, it was a preparatory packet for muggle families with magical children, and by packet, he meant a letter and various pamphlets. The letter was grossly vague, shorter than appropriate, and had conflicting information. Marek had sighed and said, _"They probably fobbed the task to some overworked Ministry assistant."_

Clearly, the Ministry had no interest in informing muggle families about anything beyond Hogwarts.

The weeks flew by as they busied themselves with reading and learning and before long, it was mid-August. Tom and Marek made a trip northwest to Chillington, a small village in Codsall Wood, to visit Marek's parents. They stayed in Baron Charles and Lizbeth Willaby's country estate for a week, taking advantage of the open land to practice magic and go on horse rides. The Willaby's home was a grand and stately manor, gifted to the family when they were "…awarded a peerage in the 17th century by so and so."

_If Tom had to hear that story more time…_

The manor was erected in the middle of a manicured field and surrounded by a sparse sprawl of towering trees that spanned some dozen acres. Not far off from the Willaby's residence, eastward, was a dotting of buildings that comprised a village. A little southwest in the fields that remained undeveloped and where the trees were thickest, was a large lake. Less than a mile from the manor and secluded, it was perfect for their clandestine lessons.

"Show me what you did again," said Marek.

Tom thrust his palm out, visualizing a barrier. The air in front of his palm rippled, a distortion, like a mirage caused by sun rays or looking at an object through water. Nothing else happened except—Marek threw a stick in the space where air was distorted, and it bounced off.

"Ugh!" Tom dropped his hand abruptly. He wheezed slightly, feeling sluggish and sleepy despite it being high noon. Gratefully, he took the water cup and chocolate bar Marek pressed into his hands.

"It's definitely a shield of some sort," said Marek.

Tom stared at him tiredly until the man pressed a damp towel against his face. He leaned into it.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. Tom sipped his water, pausing.

"Slightly better. Still sluggish."

"That must have been some high-level magic. It took a toll on you. What were you thinking of?

"I wanted to create a barrier. Tall enough to protect my body and solid. I wasn't intending to make it invisible." He said frowning. "I wasn't thinking about that at all."

He swayed and Marek eased him onto the grass. He didn't have the strength to protest.

"Enough of that, you need to recharge."

"I can still do more," said Tom. Marek pushed him backward until he laid on the ground. Something was shoved on his head.

"I can see that from your drooping eyelids," Marek drawled. He sounded as though he was at a distance, like there was cotton in Tom's ears. There was a hand brushing through Tom's hair.

"Let's do something that's not going to drain your magical core."

"What are we doing?" asked Tom. _Why did his voice sound so small?_

"I'll tell you when you wake up."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Promise made and trusting in Marek, he allowed sleep to claim him.

* * *

"Ahem."

Tom did not look at her, lest she take it as an invitation to brush his hair and fuss at him like he was some infant. Pale and prim Lizbeth delicately sipped from her wine glass.

"The boy needs his education Arthur. Why haven't you hired a governor?" said Lizbeth, pursing her lips with displeasure, as though she actually cared beyond the string of pearls around her neck.

"He doesn't need one," said Marek.

"Nonsense!" said Charles, exclaiming. "It's embarrassing enough our associates think he's your bastard. Now you're neglecting his education?"

Marek spoke coolly. "I'm not neglecting his education. The governor would be wasting his time lecturing Tom on subjects he is already advanced in."

Charles turned a critical eye on Tom. "Is that so boy?"

 _Yes, you dullard_.

"Yes sir," he said.

"He's been accepted into a private boarding academy on merit alone," said Marek.

Lizbeth smiled at Tom like he was being a particularly good dog. "Oh, how wonderful! Where is it?"

"Scotland."

"Scotland? That far?"

"He'll go to Merchiston."

"Merchiston in Edinburgh. That is a good and respectable school," said Charles. "Mayhaps his success there negate your scandal…the boy is going away for his future. And what will you do Arthur? Are you waiting for me to join the dead before you marry?"

Lizbeth took that as her cue. "Really dear, I think you've delayed long enough. It's time you took a wife—"

Tom clenched his teeth.

"—Haven't you heard what they're saying about the Dormer boy? That he's been keeping the company of harlots and degenerates! And they don't mean the fairer sex—"

"Bah!" said Charles.

"—We don't want that for you Arthur. I have a friend with a daughter your age. She was in London at the Maxwell's gala; you might have seen her. She goes by the name Florence Granberty—"

The conversation remained dull and strife with gossip the rest of the night. _Lizbeth did love to hear herself talk_. When he felt he bared it for long enough, he claimed an upset stomach— _though truthfully, he was still fatigued from the magical exhaustion earlier in the day_ —and gladly left Marek to his crucification. If they didn't wrangle a promise of marriage out of him, they might never leave. Thankfully, it was their last night at the estate and Marek was excellent at deflecting. The morning after, they bid their goodbyes to Marek's parents and departed to London.

When night fell in London, Tom settled in his bed for sleep. Yet, the call of Morpheus eluded him as a heavy feeling lingered in his chest, souring his excitement. He was reminded that September 1st was a week away.

* * *

Platform 9 ¾ rested between Platforms 9 and 10, according to Dumbledore. But Tom has already looked at all the numbers and there was no…he blinked. Marek's hand disappeared into the wall of Platform 9. He pulled it back out and Tom saw that was unchanged.

"A hidden magical barrier," said Marek. He swept his arm, gesturing for Tom to go.

"Shall we Tom?"

The wall looked solid and if Tom had any reservations about walking into it, he didn't show it. Instead, he steadily walked through the barrier and was treated to the sight of the real Platform 9 ¾. The Platform was a flurry of activity, not unlike the crowds of Diagon Alley, with students and parents hurrying along to load their trunks. The Hogwarts express was a red tube stretching as far as he could see above the crowd. Tom had his own things shrunken down and safely within the pockets of his robe, but Virgil went in the cabin available for animals. Once they found an empty cabin for Tom in the train, he felt the stirrings of uncertainty.

He's been on the verge of anxiety all week long and it was beginning to frustrate him.

"All set," said Marek, the corners of his lips pulling upward. He looked at Tom with scrutinizing eyes and that small knowing smile. Tom wouldn't see Marek for nearly a whole year. There would be breaks, but his first year at Hogwarts would be the longest he'll have spent separated from Marek. There was a corner of his mind that whispered words he refused to consider. _He'll forget you, he'll get married, he'll have other children, he might die!_

He voiced none of those thoughts and he wouldn't have been able to with a tongue as heavy as lead. As if sensing Tom's struggle, Marek placed both hands on his shoulders and drew him into the folds of his robes. Tom let himself be buried into his warmth. Marek held him there and whispered words to him with cheer.

"Be good, do your best, and send me letters. I don't know when I'll get the chance to see Hogwarts, so I'd like to get an idea of what it's like. If you need anything, _anything_ , send Virgil. If anyone gives you trouble, be it a student or teacher, or the headmaster himself, tell me. I'll lay a siege to Hogwarts. You know I will."

Tom burrowed his face in Marek's chest to hide the slight twitching of his lips. _Marek would probably succeed,_ he thought.

"I will," he promised. He felt the brush of lips in his hair and reluctantly stepped out of Marek's embrace.

"Good, I'm proud of you. Now go on. I'll be here come December."

Tom will hold him to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I thought it best to go with Tom's perspective. 
> 
> Here's their Study Plan - Tom and Marek's Very Vague Educational Plan
> 
> -Study essential subjects at Hogwarts  
> -Magical Britain Laws and Regulations  
> -Rules of Etiquette  
> -Household Spells  
> -Wizarding Economics and Infrastructure  
> -Dissemination of information/news  
> -International Laws  
> -International Trade  
> -Citizenship??  
> -blah blah blah (I'm tired you guys!)


	6. Pro Consilio Praemisit

_'If you fail to plan, you are planning to fail' – Benjamin Franklin_  
  
  
Mauldin Magcrim is squinting at the books when Frances comes to him. She brings him word about a businessman. _A businessman?_ He wonders. When he asks for a name, she does not give it to him. She didn’t bother to ask, and he shakes his head at her lack of forethought.  
  
Not many businessmen visited him. In fact, none have visited for many, many years. He gets the odd Ministry official or two, twice per year for inspection as per Ministry regulation, but no businessmen. It wasn’t that his family business was unknown, not at all; they’ve been around since 189 BC. But they had long ago foregone the business of shop keeping for manufacturing and have an established list of clients that has not changed. Thus, he made his wares and sold them to shopkeepers who then sold them for profit. His clients preferred to make their orders by owl and so he did not warrant a visit. Wiseacre's hadn't visited him once in the last decade, despite how many instruments he makes and sells them. So, a visiting businessman...  
  
The man Frances leads him to is young, possibly in his mid twenties and handsome. He is well dressed in black and blue robes and had the look of a proper pureblood, which further piqued Mauldin’s interest. _Handsome fellow must’ve gotten Frances too flustered to ask for a name,_ he thought. Mauldin is uncomfortably aware of his less than stellar appearance; his ruffled shirt and dusty trousers. He pats a hand over his thinning hair, and then greets the man.  
  
"Ah, good morning, I'm Mauldin Magcrim of Mauldin Manufacturers. And you are?" He asked with some cheer, extending a hand.  
  
A warm hand clasped his own. When the young man spoke his voice was deep and warm.  
  
"Marek Canmore," he said. "Mauldin…may I call you Mauldin?"  
  
Amber eyes, steadfast, settled on Mauldin's own and he is entreated with a slow, inviting smile. His cheeks grow warm.  
  
"Uh, yes! Yes, of course.”  
  
"Wonderful," said Mr. Canmore. A beat passes and the man's eyes flit back down to their clasped hands. Mr. Canmore's hand was slightly limp in his own and Mauldin, embarrassed, realized he had yet to release the man. He lets go as though burned and hastily clears his throat, becoming uncomfortably aware of Mr. Canmore's eyes.  
  
"W-well, what can I for you Mr. Canmore?" he asked, stumbling over his words.  
  
The other man tilted his head, drawing Mauldin’s eyes to the smooth, pale angular line of his jaw.  
  
"To start…perhaps a room where we can speak. Privately…I have a proposition for you."  
  
For a moment, Mauldin is gripped with the foolish thought that Mr. Canmore was beguiling him. Mr. Canmore stared at him through hooded eyes, not unlike the coquettish witches from The Amorous Rag. The thought crossed Mauldin’s mind before he became aware of Frances hovering at the edge of his periphery, watching them both. Flushing, he quickly dismissed Frances.  
  
Mauldin feels like a moth drawn into the light; like prey within the lion's claws. He’s pulled between a sensation of excitement and desperation, and he gestured someplace behind him.  
  
"Certainly, r-right this way,” he mutters.  
  
He isn't sure how he managed, seeing as all the life has left his legs, but despite Mr. Canmore's assessing eyes on his person, he remembered how to walk to his office.

* * *

  
  
“I reckon they’ll be a war.”  
  
“That's bollocks.”  
  
“Bloody out’ yer mind mate. Ya think they’ll figh’ a war wit us?"  
  
“It's true! I he’rd talks. All these bloody German abes settlin' in London. They're running from something.”  
  
"They're not Arabs, they're Jews."  
  
"Thats wat I said.”  
  
“You said abes.”  
  
“Abes means Jews you arse. Wats the fooking difference?"

* * *

  
  
"Mark my words, by the end of this year they'll be shipping off our sons to fight their war!"  
  
"Oh Annabeth please, we'll not go to war. Britain can't afford another one."  
  
"Well, I heard from Elizabeth, who heard it from Stevenson's wife. You know her with the—"  
  
"Yes, yes."  
  
"Well her brother is in the RAF. He says, that word is, that they're still saving the armaments from the last war. He reckons it’s because they'll be putting them to use soon."  
  
"Those are just talks!"  
  
"The last war was just talks and look at how quickly they became actions."

* * *

  
  
“Have you heard?”  
  
“Heard what?”  
  
“Chamberlain. It’s all over the papers. The agreement in Mu—”  
  
“Agreement?! More like a _bloody_ appeasement. Chamberlain’s shown his belly and made the rest of us look like cowards!”  
  
"It’s a good thing. We don't need another war—"  
  
"—hasn't even been ten years since the last one."  
  
"You think those dogs care?! They got the Sudetenland. What’s next?"  
  
"I say it’s not our problem. Sudetenland has Germans so let the Germans handle them."  
  
"Oh they're handling them. Killing them more like it. Parliament won’t admit it because then they'd have to do something about it. Germans are killing Jews. Why do you think they're migrating here? France? and the states?"  
  
"They're just rumors."  
  
"Even rumors have a grain of truth. Fuhrer Hitler has been spreading his ideology of the perfect Aryan for years. Is it so surprising that Jews don't fit into his plans for a new world?"  
  
"But to go so far as to kill them? Really Arthur?"  
  
"Why not? Is it so baffling that such evil exists?"  
  
"…but the whole country?"  
  
"Not all of them, no. But the propaganda makes some bitter and Hitler has given them a convenient scapegoat. It’s a mob mentality."  
  
"That’s just speculation."  
  
"Perhaps…"  
  
"All this talk of war is making me thirsty. Let us drink instead."  
  
 _Clink_.

* * *

  
  
"What do you reckon will do it?" Asked Marek. It was mid October and he was sitting in the library, slumped on a chair with his legs crossed. Not far from where he sat, Richard prepared afternoon tea. Momentarily, Marek lamented the absence of good coffee. What a time to be in, when coffee was the peasantry’s drink. He remembered when he first asked for it, only to be meant to be scandalized looks.  
  
"Master?"  
  
"The war. What do you think will spark it?"  
  
"You think we’ll be at war…so soon after the last?"  
  
"Germany is bitter and fueled by extreme nationalism. Already, she’s annexed Austria. There are rumors that she’s arming herself despite the treaty and now this? Perhaps I'm needlessly speculating, but you can't ignore facts."  
  
"No, I suppose not, how dreadful. If you say we’ll be at war, I believe you."  
  
"Hm. Tired of debating with me Richard?" Asked Marek bemusedly. He grabbed the tea that was placed on the table in front of him.  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't dare. You seem to have manifested an oracle's foresight."  
  
 _An oracle's foresight_ , thought Marek, smiling into his cup. _Truer words have never been spoken_. There was something surreal about watching the world take a nosedive toward imminent implosion. If he were a wiser man or cowardly, Marek would author his own seclusion and quester himself away in a bunker; he would wait for Allied victory.  
  
But he’s never been the type to run away from challenges and he had Tom to think about.  
  
He felt removed, in the way that only the prescient would feel with foreknowledge; detached from the unfolding exposition. Without his precognition, he might have succumbed to the wave of jitteriness that has taken hold of Britain's citizens. A threat was in the air and there was a maddening urgency to quell it. No one wanted to think too deeply or look too closely, lest they invite further uncertainty and chaos.  
  
But even he felt the anticipation, the wait for the other shoe to drop. Germany had annexed Austria earlier in the year and now, Chamberlain had promised them Sudetenland just days ago. If events preceded as before, _Kristallnacht_ was less than a month away in November.  
  
If Marek was a fool perhaps, he in his arrogance, would’ve tried to change things.  
  
But he wasn't a fool and he wasn’t here to play God. He could interfere for his own gain and derail the path that was set long before his first birth, and then what? Would the war begin the same way? Would it ever end?  
  
It would be the height of arrogance to think that he could control the outcome of what he changes. So far, he kept from dipping his fingers into things that could resonate too far in the muggle world and the effects have remained small in the grand scheme of things. And yet…  
  
Marek twirled the object in his hands; it was a ballpoint pen. Laid before him, on the table next to his tea and scones, were several fountain pens, an older variant of the dip pen, a muggle quill from the last century, and a magical quill. Marek contemplated the opportunity presented to him.  
  
Over the summer, the Biro brothers patented the first commercially viable ballpoint pen, known as Biro, and it was quickly growing into popularity. He jumped at the opportunity because in the small object in his hands, he saw change that would resonate in the muggle world and the potential waves it could make in the wizarding world. Good change, because surely, no harm could come from the production of pens? How could he resist? This was an opening that could send his name circulating in the wizarding world and give him another ledge to climb.  
  
Marek smirked. _Perhaps he was an arrogant fool_.  
  
Fountain pens were still the preferred choice of this era, but he knew people would come around when they saw the benefits of Biro pens. Less time consuming, no ink stains, and versatile.  
  
He hoped the same could be said for wizards. Hundreds, if not thousands of years using quills and a bottle of ink. _How tightly they clung to their traditions_. Either they would come around to the idea of pens or reject it. He hoped for the former, but to be certain of his success he wanted to introduce the idea slowly. First with dip pens, which weren't all that different from normal quills; then he would follow with fountain pens and ballpoint pens, charmed to be refillable. He was of the mind that wizards would be more receptive to the product if it evolved as a result of their own ideas. Some of them might just buy the pens for their sleeker, metallic aesthetic alone due to impulsivity, something Marek planned to exploit. He knew which group would be likely to make that impulsive purchase.  
  
The children. It's all for the children.  
  
The thing about children, they were ...adaptable, flexible, and so very, very curious. Given half the chance to poke at something new, they would do it, thoughtless of the consequences, of risks. They did not think "Can I?", they thought "I will" and that was the beauty in them. They did not let rules stop them; they did not fear discarding tradition; and they did not stay their hands for common sense. Impulsive and callous, yet quick to change and quicker to learn.  
  
Marek would exploit them, and he expected their parents to follow suit. He would start with halfblood and muggleborn children as they would be familiar with the tools before him and in turn, he expected their pureblood counterparts to attempt to outmaneuver them by purchasing from a superior selection.  
  
 _They would follow to reinforce their imagined superiority over their peers. All through pens. How comical._  
  
Marek chuckled, sipping his tea. At Richard’s puzzlement, he waved a hand in dismissal.  
  
Tom had expressed interest in the idea and already agreed to advertise the initial product. He merely waited for Marek to send him a prototype.  
  
  
 _Dear Marek,_  
  
 _Pens would be preferable to quills. My year mates often complain about the mess left behind from ink droplets and spills. I believe they would be receptive to the idea and the design possibilities would intrigue them. My influence would allow me to advertise it._  
  
 _The curriculum is rather disappointing thus far and unchallenging. I can already do the necessary spells in the books wandlessly and performing them with my wand is pitifully easy._  
  
 _Regardless of what you said about excelling, while I do show superior mastery of performing spells, I don't pointlessly reveal my wandless ability. When I do, its proven effective in deterring certain characters from foolish wand waving around me.  
  
Also, I’ve discovered that I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin because I speak parseltongue. It is the language of snakes. I believe my father likely shares this trait as well._ _As for making friends, I've made allies. These are individuals mutually invested in one's magical advancement. They are not unpleasant._  
  
 _Yours,_

 _  
Tom_  
  
  
  
Influence. Effective in deterring foolish wand waving. Marek’s lips twitched. He hoped Tom hadn’t followed his example and strangled someone. That wouldn't be conducive to keeping him off the path of becoming a dark lord.  
  
He sighed. Really, it had been a mistake on his part, losing his temper so thoroughly. But Peggy had it coming as soon as she’d touched him. Marek responded to Tom’s letter with a care package and a promise to send him a prototype pen soon.  
  
So, Tom has found his connection to Slytherin. Marek expects he'll be searching for his father under that name. Still, it wouldn't be till his fifth year that he discovers the Gaunts and consequently the Riddles. That is if Marek didn’t show him the genealogy book he'd bought recently or take him to Gringotts for a bloodline test.  
  
 _Does he know about the killing curse yet?_ Marek hoped not.  
  
Speaking of bloodlines, it was an interesting and unexpected discovery to see the glimmering name on the Goblin’s genealogy parchment. After Tom left for Hogwarts, he’d gone to Gringotts for an inheritance test and was surprised to learn that he was directly descendant from several Lestranges. The closest relation being a squib. He checked Arthur's family records to confirm the presence of Lestrange blood and was pleased to find her.  
  
Joan Lestrange was a squib who married William Stanley, the Earl of Derby and became known as Baroness Lestrange of Knockyn in 1664. This was shortly before the Statue of Secrecy came into effect. Their great great grandchild Eethel Stanley became the 7th Baroness in their line. She married the Baron Stephen Willaby and they had Charles Willaby, who then had Arthur.  
  
Charles currently retained the title Baron Strange; Marek guessed the Le part had been dropped over the centuries. While he was pleased to have a magical ancestry, he sobered to the fact that they would likely assassinate him for being a filthy mudblood. _Oh well_ , he thought, _he was going to be the best of them.  
_  
He planned to be the best of them. Much like Tom, Marek picked up the first year’s spells quickly. His ebony wand with thestrail hair made the execution of magic more effective and focused; he realized he didn’t need to use all his mental prowess to conjure or change the state of things. The concentration required for casting a simple lumos wandlessly was twofold what was required to cast it with his wand.  
  
By virtue of his progress, Marek understood and appreciated the logic of wands. In the same respect, he recognized it for the gilded trap it was. For all the lauded power the wand gives the wizard, if he loses it, he is powerless.  
  
He is powerless if he could not perform wandlessly. He is powerless, if he could not perform proficiently; which was not the case for many wizards.  
  
Marek wasn’t going to let that be true for himself or Tom. They would both hone their wandless ability until it became as easy breathing. Seeing that all that was required for casting magic was knowledge, concentration, and intent, he planned for them both to master the mind arts.

* * *

  
  
By the end of the third week of October, Marek had sent a letter to the Department of Magical Industry, referenced by courtesy of the Muggle Liaison Office. He penned the letter under Canmore and wrote it with more specific focus: how does one patent an invention and obtain a business license in the wizarding world?  
  
He sent the inquiry off with Beatrice.  
  
Not one to delay, Marek also visited Diagon Alley to speak with its business owners. He charmed them with small talk and took an interest in their stories. Tom, not the canon Tom, but his predecessor, told him how The Leaky Cauldron became an entranceway to Britain's largest shopping center. Madam Malkin, who was many decades younger and all too happy with his attentions, spoke of how she monopolized the cloth-making business in Diagon Alley. Rogare, whom he visited once more for a wand holster, told him little about his beginnings but that he started on his own many years ago, with his own funds as Gringotts was selective with whom they gave out loans. Networking and exemplary work brought Samuel Rogare the acclaim he was given by the elite. At Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment, he learned how and where many of their magical instruments were manufactured.  
  
With their anecdotes, Marek was beginning to construct a picture of how business and entrepreneurship worked in the wizarding world.  
  
Much of it was not all too different from how business in the muggle world was run. You needed a business license, which you would renew once every three years; a name that was unique and registered with the Department of Magical Industry; if you needed a loan, you would speak to Gringotts; if you intended to merge with another business, you must obtain an official contract with Gringotts and inform the appropriate parties of the merge.  
  
The Department of Magical Industry’s response to his letter was not anecdotal but an outline of the process in starting and conducting business in the Wizarding while maintaining the Statue of Secrecy. It was helpful that they included a list of legal businesses registered within magical Britain and all the industries that said business were conducted in. Many of them were tied to or conducted by the Ministry.  
  
 _A muggle capitalist would mourn this society_ , thought Marek. Privatization and capitalism existed, though sparingly, in institutions such as the Daily Prophet, Gringotts, and the countless broom-making businesses, but the Ministry owned and regulated much of magical industry and trade. It gave them a lot of power, but also crippled their efficiency. A single entity with a hand in nearly every facet of wizarding society; such a complex conglomerate was likely festering with corruption and inadequately enforcing policy.  
  
The only way to change such a system was to have power. The type of power that Marek needed to be given to him by free will. Threats of violence and fear mongering like Grindelwald and Voldemort would not keep him in power for long. He needed to influence the Ministry, by way of powerful friends or wealth. He did not have powerful friends, so wealth it would have to be.  
  
Power followed wealth.  
  
Wealth established the impression of authority.  
  
Authority was built upon credibility.  
  
To be credible, Marek had to be reputable.  
  
To be reputable, he needed a way to make a name for himself and he could feasibly do it with his pen business. His vision was that, eventually, the pen business would pave the way for other changes. May haps, it grows into a socio-economic gamechanger. An empire that it’ll keep Tom busy.  
  
Marek decided then that he would pay a visit to Mauldin Magcrim.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man oh man, I’m a bullshitter you guys. I don’t know anything about obtaining political power by way of wealth. I’ve never done it before because I’m dirt poor. Have you?
> 
> Mauldin Manufacturers and the Department of Magical Industry are made up. Idk if manufacturers actually exists, but I bet they do. It makes sense. Then again, Madam Malkin’s out here producing every bit of clothing for a lot of fucking people! Does she even have employees?!
> 
> I can see Samuel winging it on his own. He has a selective clientele and expensive tastes.
> 
> Why did I go with ballpoint pens? Because the first commercially viable ballpoint pens were patented by the Biro brothers in June 1938. Its one of the simplest inventions and one I see easily gaining popularity. Just think of the customizations. Who wouldn’t want a durable, refillable quill that had a sleek, metallic sheen, complete with a feather on the end? And just think of the engravings! People will be craving their house mottos and business names all over them.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Someone suggested I make a discord server for this fanfic. I don’t know how effective it’ll be, but here’s the link if you want to get in on instantaneous discussion or give me ideas/suggestions. https://discord.gg/E7pTzDh


	7. Pro Mi Inimice

_'I have not the nerve for his operations. They are well-planned, with great cleverness and adroitness in execution – but he is in money and funds what Napoleon was in war.' —Baron Baring on Nathan Rothschild_  
  
  
Magcrim may have been easily allured by Marek, but he was not incompetent in his role. Decades of producing countless products had subjected him to all kinds of 'new' and 'improved' inventions. Needless to say, while he was excited about the novelty and potential profit in Marek's idea, he posed a question Marek hadn't considered in all his scheming. Admittedly, he was mildly embarrassed. But he forgave himself because he was hardly much of a visionary or tradesman.  
  
Magcrim remarked on the pen's marketability but questioned its sustainability in the long-term. In a society where valuables were all but impervious to breakage—a quick and simple _reparo_ being the solution—nothing short of utter obliteration of said valuables would warrant a replacement. His pens would be durable, long lasting, unique in their versatility. They would sell fast if he marketed them right. But certain questions remained; would they keep selling at the same momentum or greater two years from now? Five years from now? It would be a novelty for some, and much too muggle for others in this traditionalist society.  
  
“What would keep a product sustaining in wizarding markets then? Besides the novelty of it and its versatility,” asked Marek.  
  
"We’re a traditional lot,” Magcrim replied. He was examining a blueprint Marek had drawn of a disassembled fountain pen. “You’ll want to add something familiar to its casing, like a feather or two. Or even elongate it to the length of a wand. I’ve never heard of a quill made entirely of metal. Could be interesting. You’ll want enchantments to keep the gloss, prevent wear and tear, and the ink could be made refillable.”  
  
He looked up at Marek with a dimpled smile. “It might sell in the right circles.”  
  
“I hope you’re not just humoring because of my pretty face Mr. Magcrim,” said Marek, with a languorous smile. The older man flushed.  
  
“Oh no, not at all! This could certainly be an interesting change to the quill market. It has a certain appeal...and very attractive framing,” Magcrim concluded, eyeing him.  
  
_Oh God no, now he’s starting to flirt back_ , thought Marek with amused surprise.  
  
“Then what are your recommendations? An architect like you who has been in this business for so long...I’m in need of your expertise.”  
  
“Well, ahem. Architect, that's a bit over much, I suppose I can give you some pointers. This could be a profitable venture, but you’ll want to start slow at first. Everyone always makes the mistake of diving head first, producing too much supply and foolishly thinking it’ll sell well all in one go. N-not that I think you're foolish, no.”  
  
Marek brows flew up.  
  
“Em, anyhow, start slow. Release a test product, yes that’s right, a test product, and don’t release all your improvements at once. When you do that, it’ll keep you in the business longer, especially when competition starts to crop up. People will want to buy the new and improved version. That’s how the broomstick business has survived for so long--”  
  
Marek let him chatter for a while longer, zoning out and imagining new possibilities.  
  
One thing that had become evident from all of Mauldin’s talk was that the wizarding world had a propensity for tradition. It’s continuum was vital to them and so was anything magical.  
  
It made him think that he may have erred in judgement. Of course, wizards and muggles were vastly different in what they valued and how they reacted to change. Where muggles were driven to innovate, to churn out inventions to meet the demands of the masses and find solutions, to understand what was elusive by way of machines and science, wizards did not place the same emphasis on technical progress. Where muggles searched and tested countless solutions, wizards had only one, unfailing answer to their problems. They separated it into different branches, gave it different names but it was all the same. They took pride in their magic, from the crackling snap of an apparition to enchanted chocolate frogs.  
  
So even a simple quill was a matter of cultural pride, and Marek's pen could challenge that.  
  
After Mauldin had quieted, he promised to stay in contact, and then left enlightened and somewhat satisfied.  
  
Marek drove back home and thought of his next steps. As he drew to a stop on a main road, his attention was caught by a woman, in a yellow sundress with a round hat atop her head. At first, he thought it was a trick of the light, but the transparent specter trailing behind her was all too human shaped and tangible in the daylight. It was a ghost. He stared, expressionless, as woman and ghost disappeared down the intersecting road. Then, Marek drove on in contemplative silence.  
  
A week prior, he might have been double taking at seeing the ghost of a wizard following a woman, but it was the second one he had seen lately. _Don’t the dead show up around Halloween or something?_ Marek attributed their presence in London to the holiday since it was around the corner and put all thoughts of ghosts from his mind.  
  
In the days following his meeting with Mauldin, he devoted his time to Willaby Estates and magic. In the first year of his rebirth, when Charles had deemed to notice his son’s sudden momentum and proactive nature, he started to push responsibilities of its management to him. Marek hadn’t devoted more than two dozen or so hours each week because he wanted to keep an eye on Tom; who had still been tentative around him. Perhaps he should have. _Oh well._ He decided it was no matter.  
  
He took the extra time he had now as an opportunity to get more involved in Willaby's estate planning and land development business. It was a chance for him to sideline a lucrative enterprise that he could hopefully turn into wealth worthy of the deepest vaults in Gringotts. It would be _interfering_ , and he _had_ insisted that he wouldn't interfere in muggle history too much but…  
  
The debate of should and should not occupied his mind until early one evening as he sat in his office. He decided then and there he would venture forth with his plans, if he wanted to reach half his goals. Reclined on the wooden and cushy chair behind his desk— _he really should invent an ergonomic chair_ —he revisited his to do list and goals for the future.  
  
_- ~~Adopt Tom~~  
  
- ~~Teach Tom academics~~  
  
-Teach/Learn magic w/ Tom  
  
-Keep Tom from being public enemy number one  
  
-Become an influential power in the wizarding world – like the Rothschilds?  
  
-Become a powerful wizard, an equal to Dumbledore and Voldemort  
  
-Create a non-muggle identity  
  
-Find an occupation? Magic related?  
  
-Obtain a mastery  
  
-Make alliances  
  
-Find out what brought me back_  
  
Half his goals were dedicated to Tom and he had or is reaching them. The others were goals that would better himself because ultimately, Marek wanted to be powerful. He wanted security for when Tom finally grew into his own and they both became high-profile. He would prefer to have influence in both spheres, both muggle and magical, but if he had to choose, he would choose the latter.  
  
Later in the night in his bedroom, he sat on the rug beside his bed and assumed a meditative pose: cross legged, his hands resting on his knees, and his eyes shut.  
  
Back at his parent’s country house, a short time before Tom started Hogwarts, Tom had attempted to make a shield. He had some marginal success before it failed and Marek wanted to recreate the attempt. He figured mediation would be as good as any starting point to get himself in the right mindset. A clear and focused mindset.  
  
Marek took deep, measured breathes, inhaling and exhaling through his nose.  
  
Inhale…Exhale.  
  
Once.  
  
Twice.  
  
Thrice.  
  
This went on for several minutes. When he felt ready, he called the magic under his skin, willing his mind to imagine the sensation of an energy that was so fundamentally part of his genetic makeup, until it became a real physical feeling. He felt the ghost of a sensation and In his mind he drew himself within a protective field and made it just big enough to engulf his body. Holding the visual in his mind, Marek slowly began to imbue his magic with intention; he made it clear what he wanted. _Protection. Safety. Solid. Around me.  
  
_For several long moments, he held this intent within his mind. Then he opened his eyes to see a thin silvery dome surrounding him. _Stay_. He held the shield in place and leaned forward to press his fingertips against it and felt to his satisfaction a solid membrane. He let his hold on the shield dissipate.  
  
_Well_ , he thought, _perfect_ _practice makes perfect_.

* * *

  
On Halloween at the eleventh hour, Richard drove him to Westminster in Central London. As they passed on to St. James Street, Marek saw another apparition in the corner of the intersection but paid it no mind.  
  
They made good time to the gentlemen's Reform club and the host, Thomas, nodded at him and directed him to a private room with a veranda where he found Sumner and Charlie, two of Arthur's and now Marek's friends. The smoke of cigars hung heavily in the air and he inhaled, taking in the excess luxury of the room and the two men sitting around a table with a food spread between. He greeted both men, drawing their attention.  
  
"Sumner. Charlie."  
  
"Arthur! Where the devil have you been? I haven't seen you since...well, I can't even remember," said Sumner grinning crookedly with a half-smoke cigar hanging in the corner of his mouth. He clasped hands with both men.  
  
"I must have imagined last Saturday then."  
  
"Was it Saturday?"  
  
"It was," he confirmed. He settled into a chair across from them, piling meats and cheeses from the charcuterie board onto the plate in front of him. Spearing some cheese cubes, he nodded his thanks to Charlie who had poured him a glass of white wine.  
  
"Then you're not visiting very often my good man. What have you been doing?"  
  
"I've been working."  
  
"Working?" Charlie asked with a raised brow. "Like a common man?"  
  
"Like a rich bourgeois. Telling the sheep what to do, how else?"  
  
They all chuckled.  
  
"With how absent you've been, we thought we finally lost you to the wiles of a woman,” said Sumner.  
  
"Not yet you haven't." Marek smirked. “Speaking of women, does Evelyn know you're here."  
  
"Oh, don't start."  
  
Charlie joined Marek's chuckling. "I think he snuck his way here."  
  
Sumner rolled his eyes. "Very funny. What's happened to Tom, your little shadow?"  
  
"Boarding school."  
  
"Hm. I still don't understand what possessed you to adopt a child. You're the last person I expected to be charitable."  
  
"Ouch. That hurt Sumner. I have my philanthropic moments."  
  
The blonde haired man snorted.  
  
"Come now Sum, people can change. Arthur was just ready to settle down," said Charlie.  
  
"Not really," Marek said. "I'll admit, in the beginning Tom was just an investment that I wanted to see flourish, but I've grown to care for him. I consider him as much my son to me as any child of my blood."  
  
There was a momentary silence at his words.  
  
Sumner peered at him with questioning eyes, but it was Charlie interjected. "Has he taken your last name?"  
  
"No, on the basis that Tom Willaby sounded ridiculous."  
  
"Hah!" Sumner laughed. "He has good sense."  
  
Sumner handed him a cigar, brushing his fingers against his own minutely. Marek lit the smoke and placed it between his lips, inhaling deeply and felt tension slowly seep out of his shoulders. He didn't make smoking a habit, but he enjoyed it when he indulged with the boys.  
  
"Can we expect you at this year’s Christmas pageantry? Old Lionel’s holding another at his flowery estate this time."  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
Sumner guffawed, gestured at him while looking at Charlie. "’Maybe’ he said. It’s the Rothschilds, of course you’re going, as is anyone important in Great Britain, including our esteemed leaders.”  
  
Marek arched a brow at him. “You don’t sound very happy when you say that.”  
  
Sumner tsked. "Of course not. It’s becoming rather apparent that our esteemed leaders have their heads shoved far up their arses. We hear enough from them in the papers, no need to have them ruin a good party with another rousing speech. What a bore."  
  
"Isn't your father one of them." Marek questioned.  
  
"Yes, that is why I said what I said."  
  
"His father's backing Vanderbilt," explained Charlie. "And Vanderbilt is aggressively opposing Chamberlain’s recent agreement."  
  
Marek shook his head. "It’s far too late for that."  
  
"Not that Vanderbilt is letting that stop him. He doesn't want to lose the support he got in opposing it in the first place," said Charlie.  
  
"Fool. No one is interested in going down that rabbit hole. It's a lost cause and he’s embarrassing himself and his supporters." said Sumner with disgust.  
  
"And you?"  
  
"Yes Arthur!"  
  
Marek dipped his head in placation.  
  
"Vanderbilt's just the horse, not the rider," said Charlie.  
  
Marek nodded his agreement and tapped his cigar on the edge of an ashtray. Politics was politics wherever and whenever you go; and it always followed money. Vanderbilt likely was being backed by someone influential and wealthy, someone who opposed Chamberlain's appeasement. Or just Chamberlain. Someone like Rothschild.  
  
  
  
Several hours later, after he bid Sumner and Charlie goodbye, he left the club. As he walked down the smooth path toward Richard and his car, he nearly paused when he saw the apparition from earlier floating next to them. She met his gaze and smiled faintly. Her hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders and she wore a bloodied dress that looked like Victorian era fashion. She was young. _Did she follow him here?_  
  
“Hello,” she said. He didn’t respond, simply stared at her in confusion.  
  
"Are you alright sir?" Asked Richard.  
  
“Fine,” he replied. Tearing his eyes from the woman, he entered the car and Richard shut the door behind him.  
  
"Wait!" She said, speaking through the window. She slid into the car with him and he physically recoiled as her body brushed him. His arm hairs stood on end.  
  
"I have to tell you something," she said.  
  
"It's rather chilly in here," Richard, settling in the driver’s seat.  
  
"Sorry dear." She chirped. She turned so that she faced Marek. "I have to tell you something. You _can_ see me can't you?  
  
Deciding to see what she wanted, Marek dismissed Richard.  
  
"Richard, I seem to have forgotten to set another date with Sumner. Deliver this message to him please. Let him know I'll see him in a fortnight at Savile."  
  
"Certainly master."  
  
"Same time,” he added. Richard nodded and left the car. Marek waited till he entered the building and then he turned to the ghost.  
  
"I can see you. What do you want?"  
  
"I have to tell you something."  
  
"So you've said. Go on."  
  
She sniffed and a golden curl bounced.  
  
"You don't need to be rude.”  
  
He gave her a sharp glance, letting his annoyance speak for him. She rolled her eyes as if he was the one inconveniencing her.  
  
"Oh, oh alright. Someone is looking for you."  
  
"Who?” he asked.  
  
"I don't know but they're dangerous."  
  
"..."  
  
"..."  
  
He frowned. "...Is that it?"  
  
"No that's not it! They're dangerous and they're hunting you. You don't belong! You're not supposed to be here!"  
  
He stiffened, disbelieving and uncertain.  
  
"What are you talking about?!"  
  
"I don't know all of it, just what the others told me to tell you. They heard it from a concerned party. Something about a summoner."  
  
_"A summoner?"_  
  
"Yes, wretched, depraved _mungsnipes_. Dark wizards of the worse--"  
  
"Hold on! Who is this summoner? How did you find me? And what do you mean... _that I don't belong here?_ "  
  
"I told you I don't know the lot of it! I'm just the messenger and it's Samhain. That’s how I found you. Easy to find the dead when it's Samhain."  
  
Some moments lapsed as he processed what she said. Finally, he spoke, voice tinged with confusion.  
  
"...I'm not dead."  
  
She frowned at him. "Aren't you?...Death follows you."  
  
There was uncertain pause and Marek spotted white gloves just as Richard rounded the edge of the car.  
  
"Get out. Find me later."  
  
"This is a warning. They're looking—"  
  
"I said get out!" He snapped.  
  
"Oh! How rude! A lady comes to deliver a message, and this is her thanks? You might dress like a gentleman but you're far from one! It's the mixing with muggles, I say. No manners! Humph!"  
  
She fled the car in indignation as Richard entered the driver’s seat.  
  
"Your message was delivered master."  
  
Marek worked his jaw, consternation lining the crease between his brows.  
  
"Thank you Richard,” he said absently.

* * *

The Hogwarts Express was slowing to a stop. He tried to spot Marek through the window, looking for him amidst the parents eagerly awaiting their children at the station. Tom briefly wondered if Marek was just as anxious to see him as they were to see their children, and singularly quashed it. Sentiment.  
  
Marek had never overly worried for Tom or displayed emotions. When he was pleased, he smiled for him, or touched his head, or said a few words of praise. He let him decide things for himself, the way he liked it. It was always enough to tell him that he...was important to Marek.  
  
Nearly three and half months was a long time and the hearts and whims of lesser beings changed in that period.  
  
_"I'm proud of you."_  
  
Tom decided that Marek was not lesser.  
  
He heard the crank of wheels roll to a stop, the rumble of engines die down, and the hiss as doors slid open. Then he was breaking away from his not quite friends and joining the rabble. He didn't need to grab his luggage. It was safe in his pockets and he had let Virgil return home on his own the night before, so he went straight to looking for Marek.  
  
It was a few minutes of searching before he heard "Tom!"  
  
His head snapped to his left and unconsciously, he smiled when he spotted the familiar unwaveringly steady figure of his guardian. Marek closed the distance between them with his longer strides before Tom legs could cooperate.  
  
Then he was being pressed against Marek's midsection.  
  
After an embarrassingly long moment, he pulled away from Marek, who looked down at him with glittering eyes and an amused curl of the lips.  
  
He opened his mouth to speak and was promptly interrupted.  
  
"Tom!"  
  
Tom turned slightly to find Daugherty, a Ravenclaw year-mate on his not quite friends list. In the background, Prince and Avery waved and nodded to him as they left with their guardians.  
  
"See you after Christmas mate!" Said Daugherty.  
  
Tom nodded and Daugherty disappeared.  
  
"Friends?" Came Marek's woefully missed voice.  
  
"Not quite friends."  
  
"Allies then?"  
  
Tom considered the word momentarily, turning it over in his head.  
  
"Allies...yes."  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! How is the pacing of these chapters? 
> 
> We already know Tom's flaws and some of Marek's: aloof, callous, manipulative
> 
> To reflect Marek's humanity and make him less of a time traveling Gary Sue his flaws need to be detrimental to himself in some way. I want them to affect his relationship with Tom and others. Tom's young now, dependent on him, and he'll see Marek's flaws but he's not the victim of them to his knowledge. He has this somewhat idealic image in his mind of Marek that I want to crack a little. What do ya'll think?
> 
> Tom's will grow out of Marek's sphere and try to stretch his wings which would limit Marek's control over him. He might find Marek to be controlling.
> 
> Join me on Discord


	8. Pro Sanguis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the compliments everyone. That something I started on a whim to stretch my fingers and push my imagination could even garner this much reception...wow. I'm an avid reader and I've studied creative writing, but I haven't written anything I was invested in for 5 years until now. Mine is one of many SI's and I never thought my ideas were new or anything, just a different approach. So I'm terribly happy to realize that to you, it has a certain novelty to it that makes it worth reading :

_‘There is nothing more important than appearing to be religious.’ ―_ _Niccolò Machiavelli_

Tom and Marek met with Richard outside Kings Cross station. It was a little bit surprising to realize that he was glad to see the man well and he nodded his own greeting when Richard smiled warmly at him. They drove home, winding through London’s foggy streets and the festive holiday atmosphere. Before long, they arrived home and Marek was ushering him to his room to wash up for dinner. 

It almost felt as if he never left. Jumping back into the motions after several months at a magical school might have been jarring but the transition was so smooth, he barely noticed. There were so many things he wanted to tell Marek, to show him but he found himself content enough to leave it for another day and simply bask in familiar grounds.

They feigned polite conversation about an illusionary boarding school for the staff's benefit; Marek asking polite pointed questions and Tom weaving stories about his school days— _with_ _a healthy dose of truth in them of course_ —smirking all the while. _Merlin, damn it, he missed Marek_. They settled in companionable familiarity during dinner and then Marek was urging him off to bed. Tom was too drained from the long train ride to protest heavily and let Marek herd him to his room. As soon as he collapsed on his bed, belly full and Marek hand pulling the sheets around him, he fell into Morpheus' embrace.

It was mid-morning when he awoke the next day, well rested and mouth sour. The grittiness of his teeth pushed him to leave his bed. After brushing his teeth and bathing, Tom dressed himself and made his way downstairs to breakfast, taking note of the Christmas décor he missed the night before. He found Marek already seated at the head of the table, legs crossed and the muggle paper in his hands. Marek glanced at him when he entered the room.

“Sleep well?” he asked.

“Well enough,” Tom replied and seated himself to Marek’s right. “What are you reading about?”

“Nothing interesting, all dreadfully dull and somewhat useless. Apparently, Richard Hagan pilfered funds from Samson Press—”

Tom listened with half an ear as Marek raddled on about money laundering and fraud. He gathered some food from the breakfast spread in front of him onto his plate and tucked in.

This was one of the things he missed. Children his age made for dull conversationalists, even those in Slytherin and Ravenclaw, apart from a select few. To his disgust, they were just as trivial, whiny, and brainless as muggle children. He’d been prepared to make ‘friends’ as Marek suggested and had nearly written them all off as lost causes a scant few days later.

But there were a few that he’d managed to make tentative alliances. Prince, Gage, Daugherty, Avery were at least bearable.

It was, admittedly, nice to share his excitement with others and he’d been relieved that they were just as unfamiliar and in awe as he was of Hogwarts. There were few words to describe the grandiose castle erect in all its magical glory, the winding halls guarded with statues standing in ceremony, the hundreds of candles hovering in the great hall, the talking portraits and moving stairs, the dimness and beguiling darkness of the dungeons. He enjoyed his classes, reveling in what he learned and standing apart, ahead of his peers. He'd already virtually mastered all the first and even some second-year spells. He was first in his year, earning points left and right from his teachers, he was a model student, he was—

_Mudblood._

Tom felt the slightest stirrings of anger and his quickly dissolving appetite.

They thought they were better than him. Black, Malfoy, Rosier, Carrow, and others. They called him a _filthy mudblood_ , as if he was _lesser_ , as though he didn’t belong, presuming to call him a… _thief!_

When he had the most ancient and noblest bloodline of them all; when he could perform magic in ways they only dreamed of. As if their so called 'pure' blood made them anything but mediocre.

He must have been frowning severely because Marek was snapping in his fingers at him. He glanced at him, seeing the man’s concerned puzzlement.

“Something you want to talk about?” asked Marek.

Tom considered him for a moment. He hadn’t told Marek that he faced contention in House Slytherin since he began Hogwarts; he’d resolved to handle things on his own.

“Have you heard of the word mudblood?”

At first Marek didn’t react. Then, he sighed heavily and folded the paper before placing it on the table.

“Yes, I have. I wondered when this topic would come up,” he said.

Tom wondered when and where he might’ve heard it.

“You tried to warn me,” he said instead, thinking back to Marek’s first letter to Dumbledore and their conversation afterward.

“Did I?”

“Your letter to Professor Dumbledore. You said we would be unprepared and there would be others who were, _presumably_ , better than us.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Marek. He bore his eyes into Tom’s. “Did someone call you a mudblood?” 

Tom showed the barest sneer. “Some purebloods. But it doesn’t matter, I’m from the line of Slytherin and a parseltongue.”

Marek nodded, but said. 

"You know it’s all just talk? Blood purity is just another social construct meant to elevate a select few.”

Tom frowned. "I know that. They're being racist because it suits them. Muggles do it all the time, that’s why they're killing each other."

"Has anyone attacked you, physically or otherwise?"

Tom glanced at Marek, meeting his piercing eyes. _What would you do if I was? How far would you go?_

"No," was his reply.

“Good.”

They fell into silence once more and Tom felt compelled to add.

“I didn’t tell them.”

Marek glanced at him in question.

“I didn’t tell them I was parseltongue,” he repeated.

“No?” asked Marek, echoing faint incredulity.

Tom nearly smirked as the man's brows met his hairline. He was vaguely insulted that Marek thought he would go around brazenly flaunting his bloodline. As much as he wanted to, he wasn’t a Gryffindor to throw caution to the wind no matter the disrespect shown to him. There was a time and place for retribution, and he could play the game better than them. He would wait to reveal himself at an opportune time. Right now, Tom was content putting fools in their place through a physical demonstration.

“I’ll wait to reveal myself at the right moment, just like you will.”

He was rewarded when the corner of Marek’s lips twitched until he was giving him a half smile.

Some days the fanciful thought crossed his mind that perhaps Marek was his father and he’d already saved him, then he would outright dismiss the idea because he was certain Marek wouldn’t have kept the fact hidden. His guardian only ever and rarely spoke about his elusive two daughters, never acknowledging their state of living...or lack thereof. Tom presumed they were dead, and he couldn’t help the slight twinge of satisfaction he felt in his jealousy. If Marek’s lack of brokenness was any indication, he didn’t mourn them and never did anything to suggest that he did so in private.

Still, what a bitter pill to swallow, to learn that he was in any way lesser or half of anything. But the truth of it was in his name and his origins. A half-blood child from a noble line ending up in an orphanage…his father was either a blood traitor or…he raped his mother.

Tom pursed his lips in distaste.

As if sensing his mood, Marek pushed the conversation forward. They spoke of Hogwarts and his subjects instead. A short while after breakfast, Marek left to oversee work in the city and Tom was left to his own devices. He drifted to his room and passed his time reading. In the days following, he received letters and gifts from his friends and went through the effort of returning the courtesy; another necessary step to cementing their loyalty.

Before long, it was Christmas eve and he was nearly halfway through his winter break; which meant more frivolous celebrations, well wishes, and of course a party. Rothschild's pageantry, which would be an unusually large event hosting various public figures, and Marek and Tom were invited. Or rather, Marek was invited and he was bringing Tom along. 

Tom was adjusting his evening suit in the mirror when he heard the knock on his bedroom door. The maid, Katherine, informed him it was time to depart. Deciding that he was neat enough, Tom ventured down stairs to the greeting gallery and waited for Marek. He didn't have to wait long before the man was gliding down the staircase attired in a similar evening dress. Even Richard was dressed smarter than usual for the occasion. 

They departed for the Rothchild's Waddeson manor minutes later. Located Northwest of central London in Buckinghamshire, it took them nearly forty minutes to make the trip, by then the dredges of the city gave way to flatter ground and untouched nature. 

With how anticipated this event was--he'd been feeding on Marek unusually distracted energy--Tom was nearly expecting them to be greeted with a royal procession. He was expecting a castle on par with Hogwarts, which was silly; he didn't know if any castle, magical or otherwise, existed on par with Hogwarts. But Waddeson manor was certainly impressive. 

The victorian manor was grand and opulent, bordered by thick trees, manicured fields, and floral gardens. Richard joined the procession of automobiles that dropped off passengers at the entrance of manor. Moments later, Tom was joining Marek in greeting people he neither knew nor cared for. 

An hour passed and Tom decided that Marek must be having a thrilling time, because Tom wasn't. If he'd know it would be this dreadfully dull, he would have preferred to stay at home. His mood was contrary to the festive atmosphere. He might’ve enjoyed the event if he hadn’t been subjected to this torture. The children’s room.

“What’s your name?” asked a blonde pig-tailed girl. He ignored her, which apparently didn’t clue her in to that fact that he didn’t want to be bothered as she kept tugging his sleeve. He jerked out of her grasp, sending her a contemptuous glare.

“I said, what’s your name?”

“That isn’t your business. Don’t you have someone else to bother?” 

She pouted. “That’s rude. You're a gentleman. You're supposed to be courteous."

"I assure you, this is the most courteous you will get from me."

"It's proper to give your name when a lady asks."

"Its proper to introduce yourself before demanding it of others."

"I'm Katherine Beauchamp." 

"I dont care."

"Now, you're being rude again. Don't you know how to talk to a lady?"

He ignored her. She tugged his sleeve again. 

"Don't touch me," he hissed. 

She sniffed and frowned. "You keep ignoring me."

"Obviously."

Silence. 

Tom started to relax and then.

"Do you want to dance with me?"

 _Excuse me?_ He narrowed his eyes in distaste.

"Why would I ever want to do that?"

“Why not?! What's wrong with dancing? I'm a lady, won't you do me the honor?"

“I don’t particularly care. Everything. And you’re not a lady. You’re a girl.”

“I am a lady.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you aren’t”

_What is he doing?_

“I am too.”

He rolled his eyes and then delivered his next words as caustically as possible. “Ladies are graceful and courtly women, not ugly twelve-year-old gorillas with blond pigtails and no courtesy. As it is right now, you fit better in a garbage dump, then a soiree.” 

Silence followed his words and just when he thought that she lacked the brain cells to understand his insult, she flushed red. He watched with satisfaction as she fled across the room. Of course, seconds later she returned with an older, blond haired boy he presumed to be her brother. Disinclined to deal with them further, he reached out with his magic. As her brother placed his left foot forward, Tom tugged the foot further with wandless levitation, unbalancing him; the older boy went sprawling face first into a tray of sweets on a table, splattering the contents all over himself and the floor. There was a momentary, startled silence in the room before it was filled with echoing guffaws and sniggers.

Tom left the siblings to their embarrassment and snuck out to the ballroom’s mezzanine, where the adults were entertaining themselves down below. From his place against the edge of the lofts barrier, he had an unhindered view of the ballroom. The vantage point let him see the statues at every corner and the carvings cut into the columns; the expensive paintings lining the walls and the mosaics littering the ceiling. He absorbed the aroma of food, the light music and clinking glasses, and the conversation and laughter that was buoyant in the golden hall.

He tried to spot Marek and found the curls of his brown hair and familiar silhouette in one corner of the room; Marek stood with another man whom he recognized as Charlie Beresford. And where was—ah, there he was. _Sumner Holland_. 

Tom sneered at the hand that had fallen on Marek's shoulder. The man, as always, had the disgusting and audacious habit of repeatedly violating Marek's personal space. He glared at him and Tom liked to think the heat of his glare must have been felt because Holland let his hand fall back and glanced around.

Tom continued watching for several minutes. He was debating whether it was worth the walk to the food table when his thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on his shoulder. He turned.

The woman who disturbed him was beautiful, conventionally so. Her brown hair was pinned in an elegant low bun as was the favored fashion and she wore a silver, embellished gown that complimented her form and earrings to match. He took in her red stained lips, high cheekbones, and hazel eyes dispassionately. She looked like the perfect society lady, all prim and proper, except for the sudden blanching of her face. He watched as she jerked from him as though struck and he met her shock coolly.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Y-you, T-Tom!”

Tom tilted his head in puzzlement. _Did he know her?_

“You look just like, just like Tom,” she stuttered.

_Was she mad?_

“Yes, I do look like myself,” he said, smiling wanly. “Did you need something?”

Her face passed through several conflicted expressions before she made a poor attempt to gather herself.

“Cecilia?”

It was a man’s voice approaching them both. Deeming the interaction unworthy, Tom turned back to watch the crowd below and nearly missed as she excused herself. He glanced at her, Cecilia's, retreating form, meeting the backwards frown she sent him. As the night progressed, Tom forgot the strange woman but he occasionally spotted her in the assembly of bodies, staring at him with confused anger.

He wondered what this other _Tom_ did to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go! Tom being a mean boi.
> 
> Join me on Discord: https://discord.gg/9bDX6uX


	9. Pro Doctrina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where Tom is a smol bean with fangs.  
> Marek is getting things done in the background.  
> And Richard has been dealing with their shit for too long.  
> Somehow he manages to remain impervious in the face of the madness. Here’s to being a professional butler with several handkerchiefs at ready.
> 
> *Also, I changed Marek’s wand wood from ebony to yew because I can, and I decided it fit him better.

  
  
_“A true teacher would never tell you what to do. But he would give you the knowledge with which you could decide what would be best for you to do.”  
― Christopher Pike,_[ _Sati_](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1499371)  
  
  
  
It was Richard who put him to bed that night. He’d driven them home after the party had neared its conclusion and Marek was finally able to appropriately excuse himself. Tom lightly dozed off in the car ride home and Richard carried his deadened weight up to his room. Had he been more alert, he might have shown some disgruntlement at this minor indignity, but at that moment he hardly cared to. Richard tugged off his coat, tie, shoes and socks and pulled the covers over him. Tom fell asleep quickly.  
  
The next morning, he pulled himself out of bed to a slightly chilled floor and light frost on his bedroom window. Aware that Marek would be waiting for him, he bathed, dressed himself, and then trekked down to the parlor, where he found Marek. The room was the most decorated of the whole house—courtesy of Margaret and the staff’s enthusiasm—and Tom wondered for whose benefit since they hardly had intimate visitors and neither Marek nor himself cared overmuch for the holiday even though they exchanged gifts. Richard stood off to the side, preparing refreshments for them. When he was done, Marek dismissed him from his duties for the rest of the day and gave most of the household leave to go to their families. Tom was thankful Marek's parents decided against visiting this year.  
  
They ate a light Yuletide breakfast and exchanged gifts. For Tom, Marek gifted him two books: _"A Study of Occlumency"_ and a muggle book called _"Concentration and Meditation: A Manual of Mind Development."_ The third gift was a pair of the 1st beta version of a hybrid muggle-wizard quill; Marek branded it Tuus Font, Font for short. In addition to Marek gifts, he received presents from his allies as well.  
  
The occlumency book intrigued him and he regarded it appreciatively. He wondered why the thought never crossed his mind that mind-reading was an actuality; someone could have been violating his privacy all that time he was at Hogwarts. Nonetheless, Marek had given him the means to guard his mind. The book on meditation was something he'd have to reserve his opinion on.  
  
Tom was also pleased with the Font, a sign that Marek had finally put some plans into motion. As a supporting party to his enterprising projects, Tom was as invested in its success as much as Marek. It was an attractive gift; refined without seeming like a gaudy embellishment. The metal barrel of the quill was elongated from the two inches of most standard quills to three inches; the nib flared out to resemble the head of a fountain pen and there were aesthetic carvings in the casing that imparted a refined quality. The letters ‘TF’ in a circle were engraved on the upper facing side of the pen and a single short black feather added to the length of the Font from its attachment to the barrel.  
  
He had suggested to Marek that they offer the Fonts, initially, as gifts to an exclusive circle when the man had raised concerns about its future as a long-term investment. Tom imagined, when they started gaining followers, this would be one way to give said followers an introduction. It would be a nice little way of knowing who had sympathetic inclinations to their cause.  
  
He thanked Marek for his gifts and placed them off to the side. Then, with nimble cold fingers, he gave Marek a gift of his own.  
  
Marek gave him a curious smile and deftly unwrapped the small rectangular box. For a moment he merely stared at the box with a frown, and Tom watched anxiously as he pulled out one of the bow wrapped burlap sacks and held it to his nose to smell. His face bloomed into clear surprise and he released a startled huff of a laugh.  
  
“Coffee beans,” he uttered reverently with a wide grin. Tom felt the anxiety pooling in his gut slowly drain away. He’d been second guessing himself for weeks.  
  
“It seemed like an appropriate gift. I know you prefer it to tea with how much you ask for it,” he explained.  
  
Marek was still beaming, a pure smile with glistening white teeth. He aimed that brilliance at Tom who felt helpless but to return it.  
  
“Tom,” he said softly. “Thank you. It’s a very thoughtful gift.”  
  
Tom nodded, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks but he resolutely met Marek’s gaze. Marek turned back to the bags, pulling out a tag and reading it.  
  
“A Specialty Blend…Made in Italy, how did you even get this?”  
He smirked smugly. “Richard found me a seller and put an order for me.”  
  
“Hm, well thank you, I like it.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” said Tom.  
  
After another lulling hour in the parlor, he and Marek retreated to their solar; Tom now referred to it as the Acquisition Room, because it was there where they could openly talk about knowledge they acquired or wanted to acquire. He fed Virgil and Beatrice treats and opened the single window in the room in preparation for sending the hawks out.  
  
Then he settled into a chair by the writing table just as Marek reclined on the sofa with a book. Tom pulled out several sheets of parchment paper and began to write.  
  


* * *

  
_Prince,  
  
Good fortunes and hopefully this letter finds you well.  
If your going to write a treatise on potion making, I suggest you make it one that also addresses the misleading information inscribed in our textbooks. I will vet it for you at a price of course.  
I do hope you weren’t planning on having our esteemed potions master do it.  
  
Regards,  
  
Tom_   
  


* * *

  
_Daugherty,  
  
Hopefully this letter finds you in good spirits. As pleasing as your invitation is, I must decline as I have prior engagements.  
  
Regards,  
  
Tom_   
  


* * *

  
_Avery,  
  
I’m aware that Rosier can’t help his feelings of inadequacy in the face of my grievous theft of your friendship. While I would be content if he could keep all manners of his resentment to himself, I know that is not within the realm of possibility. A wise man once said, ‘There are two things a person should never be angry at, what they can help, and what they cannot.’  
  
Neither he nor I can that help is that he is a covetous imbecile, so I am not angry.  
  
On another note, pleasant tidings. I’m pleased with your gift. I’ve read the first chapter and I anticipate the rest to be just as promising. But there is something else I’m interested in. Tell me, what do you know of Slytherin’s line?  
  
Cordially,  
  
Tom_   
  


* * *

  
He tied the letters to Virgil and Beatrice and watched them take flight. Shutting the windows, he turned back to Marek, who glanced at him.

“Ready for another lesson?” he asked.

“As am I always,” said Tom. He was eagerly anticipating whatever Marek thought to teach him and for the first time, he would be able to return the favor. “If you didn’t have your current responsibilities, you would do well as a professor at Hogwarts. You teach better than some of its professors and they’ve been there for years.”

Marek smirked slightly. “High praise. However, I don't find the thought of spending countless, thankless hours teaching hormonal, distracted children appealing.”

Tom peered at him curiously. “You’ve done it before.”

“With destitute muggle orphans who mostly behaved themselves. They were desperate to learn because I could teach as a means of escape…and there was a tradeoff.”

At Tom’s questioning look, he answered.

“There was one who student who made my time teaching them worth it,” he said, and Tom internally preened. Externally, he smirked slightly and inclined his head.

“I still think you’d do a better job,” he said.

“I think you’re being biased but thank you,” said Marek. He set his book aside and stood. “Now, I believe you were going to remedy some of my defensive skills, so why don't we practice in the basement. I was able to reinforce it somewhat and set up practice dummies.”

Tom nodded. "Very well.

With that they moved down to the basement. As soon as they entered, Tom noticed a stale, pungent smell and he grimaced.

“What is that smell?” he asked irritably.

“My reinforcement to the basement,” answered Marek. He walked to the middle of the room, impervious, and stood facing the dummies.

The basement was nearly half the length of the townhouse, mostly barren with the exception of mounted dummies to the left of the stairs and the single middling-sized carpet Marek was currently standing on. It was, as far as dueling space went, acceptable.

Wrinkling his nose, he asked. “What kind of reinforcement?”

“A very simple alchemical mixture. I coated the beams, walls, and columns with it. Despite the rotten smell, it fortifies the structure of most materials at a subatomic level and makes them impervious to most spells.”

Alchemy? They wouldn't study that until fifth or sixth year.

"I hope the smell won't deter you from learning it."

Tom sniffed disdainfully.

"If we still end up breaking something, then it just might."

"It won't I promise. I had some time to test it,” he said. Marek gestured to the scorch marks on the wall behind the dummies, and they also appeared to be in poor shape. Tom watched as Marek began rolling up his sleeves and remembered the rule about no magic usage outside of Hogwarts.

“I can’t use magic outside of Hogwarts,” he reminded Marek.

In response, Marek merely held his own wand out in Tom’s direction. When he did nothing else, Tom took it. He studied the wood, yew like his own and twelve inches with thestral tail hair. It felt peculiar in his hand, fitting yet not quite, as was the element of a wand not his own. His hesitation was only momentary before he faced one of the dummies and cast his first spell; one of few he’d been learning for this precise moment.

“ _Diffindo_.”

The spell hit the dummy and instantly severed in half. Tom approached it, bending to pick up its lower half and repaired it.

_“Reparo.”_

He showed Marek the movement for both incantations and gestured for him to try. Marek attempted both spells several times with improving success each time. They moved on to body-binding, with Tom throwing tattered cricket balls from his corner of the room and Marek attempting to blast them with a _Reducto_ while they were airborne. Tom pointed out that the balls made better opponents then some of his year mates much to Marek’s amusement.

Overall, Marek did well. Even with his patchwork repertoire of magical knowledge and theory, he could still successfully execute each spell; such was his meticulous approach and accuracy and Tom was slightly envious of his sophistication. Before long, it was Tom’s turn to receive a lesson and it started with them both facing each other, standing an arm length apart.

One moment there was nothing but Tom watching and waiting, in the next second, silvery wisps of particles appeared in the air, merging and stringing together until they grew in mass to form a thin, translucent substance that wrapped around Marek’s form. Tom stepped back as the silvery dome warped in shape to accommodate his body. For a while neither of them moved, and then the dome disappeared entirely. Tom blinked.

“What happened?” he asked.

“See for yourself? Touch the air behind you.” Said Marek.

With narrowed eyes, Tom turned and extended his hand in front of him until his fingers hit a solid, invisible wall and the air beneath his hand burst into light. He pulled his hand back slightly and watched the light quickly disappear. He repeated action again and again, watching _something_ react to the pressure of his hand.

When he was satisfied, he turned to Marek.

“Teach me,” he demanded.

Marek tsked. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“What is it?” he asked.

Marek raised a brow at his brusqueness but answered anyway.

“A shield.”

Then, a silvery dome appeared to surround them. Tom hummed in realization and examined it.

“You can control its state of visibility," he remarked.

"Yes. Originally this is what I produced,” he gestured with his hands. “This plated, hardened dome. I was thinking of a tangible representation of a shield. Solid, strong, something I could see, and this is what I got. It’s a variation of the Protego charm. I’m certain it meets all the criteria of the spell despite the fact that I didn’t follow the script: with wand movement, incantation—”

Tom touched the shield again, feeling its solidity before his hand curiously passed through, as if the shield had disappeared.

“—and as you can see, I can change its properties. You didn’t see it before because I made it invisible but after I wrapped the shield around myself, I expanded its radius so that you would be under its protection too.”

Tom pulled his hand back and turned to Marek.

“Why didn’t I feel it?”

“It's possible to make holes in the shield. _Protego_ isn’t impenetrable. You can poke holes in its defense by targeting a specific spot over and over again. But I'm the caster, so I can easily make a hole in the shield so that it can wrap around another person. Additionally, I can do this…"

Suddenly both Marek and the shield disappeared entirely. But he kept speaking, his voice echoing in the room, as Tom glanced around in awed.

"Invisibility, disillusionment, whatever you want to call it. Concealing yourself with the shield is possible. With a little experimentation, you can stretch the limits of what you can do with magic."

Tom huffed, barely holding back his smirk.

“This is why I think you would do well in Hogwarts,” he said. “They don’t teach this way at all!”

Marek hummed. Tom thought it came from behind him and he whirled in place, but there was nothing.

“I suspect they don’t want to deal with foolhardy children carelessly creating irreversible accidents,” said Marek.

“Maybe some of them. I don’t really care about them, just teach me,” he said.

"I will,” Marek replied, appearing behind Tom. He placed his hands upon his shoulders and Tom craned his neck to see Marek smiling fondly. “But first you need to meditate.”

* * *

  
Meditation, as Marek explained it, was the process of habitually training one's mind and awareness to achieve mental and emotional stability. Marek said he used it to fortify his mind and that it made spell casting easier because it increased his perception and concentration.

To Tom it sounded no different than what was written in his "A Study of Occlumency" book. Basic occlumency required clearing one's mind of all thoughts and emotions, which meditation was intended to do.

_"Think of it as a prerequisite to occlumency. Once you've cleared your mind, you can begin to build guards in place. Meditation helps with that. We know it takes certain levels of concentration to successfully cast spells.”_

_Tom nodded, recognizing that Marek was going into a lecture._

_“Well, that concentration can be shored up over time with practice. The more you practice the more you can concentrate for longer intervals,” said Marek. “As the spells you learn increase in difficulty, you're going to need the mental fortitude to have a sufficient grasp over how each spell is executed."_

_Tom spoke. “Professor Dumbledore tells us that magic is tied to our thoughts and it needs intent. He said we have to study our target and its properties before performing the transfiguration, and to know the structure and properties of the intended transfiguration."_

_“That’s correct. What he's referring to has to do with spatial perception. Your mind takes in sensory information and perceives the environment and your position relative to it. From there, it infers what your next action must be, and thus you have intention. Your next step, thereafter, should be to produce a response or a stimulus—"_

_"...and that requires concentration and an interpretation of what I expect to happen,” said Tom, completing Marek’s statement._

_“Precisely."_

Since their lesson on Yuletide, Tom had been meditating for a half hour each night before bed and in the morning like a muggle Buddhist monk and then attempting to create Marek’s shield. His progress was slow, but he was able to create a partial shield that covered his front. And while Tom still didn't like muggles, he could grudgingly admit to their superior knowledge in areas wizards were poorly informed.

Marek told him that knowledge can be drawn from anywhere. That he needed to be flexible and open minded or what he knows could become stale and rigid. Since he trusted Marek more than anyone else, Tom decided he would keep that in mind.

It was a given that Marek was powerful; in mind, will, and magic. Despite being as muggleborn as they come—and Tom would keep this secret for him—he proved to him that blood had nothing to do with one's magical ability. If having pure blood made one more powerful, then he would have...he would have to accept his own inferiority and he could never, never do that!

To be inferior to the likes of Carrow? hah! Carrow wasn't fit to be wizard, whereas Tom and Marek were more deserving of that honor, 'tainted' as they both were.

A few days later, Tom’s birthday arrived, which marked the end of winter break and his summary return to Hogwarts. When the day came, Marek bundled him up and took him to an ice cream parlor. Tom sniffed hauntingly at the sticky screaming children and asked Marek why he brought him to such a place, to which Marek replied that he thought ice cream on puffed pastry was Tom’s favorite dessert. It was but couldn’t Marek had taken them to some place classier?

They spent the day—with Richard as a tag along—driving around London, shamelessly casting harmless, wandless magic on unsuspecting muggles. Marek preached the measure of one’s mastery over their magic was how well they could wield it with subterfuge and Tom wholeheartedly agreed. So they visited the cinema, The Science Museum in South Kensington, and the Port of London because Tom had never seen a ship in real life. Marek would occasionally point out businesses whom he rented out plots of land or building space; or businesses he invested in to receive a percentage of their profits. He had Richard drive them past a hidden magical factory owned by Magcrim Mauldin, who was currently producing precious metals for Marek with the assistance of an alchemist. He asked Marek where he found an alchemist and learned it was from a Floo Directory. Tom didn’t even know a Floo Directory for the Floo Network existed.

They even stopped by a park and somehow, Marek roped him into playing with the muggles; not that they were aware they were even participants. It was an amusing challenge, Tom thought smirking. They would both attempt to levitate the same object, usually the muggle’s possession, without their notice and without being caught; then their game would dissolve into a tug of war right under the public's nose. Tom wondered just how many statute secrecy violations they incurred.

Their trip around London took them to the edge of the city boundary, where Marek decided that Tom needed to practice running and shielding at the same time, much to his chagrin. He was only mollified somewhat when Marek said he would perform the exercise with him. They stopped at the edge of Bagshot Woodlands in South Kensington, which was secluded hunting grounds thick with trees and underbrush.

Tom wrinkled his nose when his shoes sunk into the mud. The woodland trees though numerous in number weren’t crowded together so neither of them would face the hazard of blindly running into a tree; even so, he thought their shields would prevent that from happening anyway. He turned around to catch the tail end of Richard's sentence.

“—I refuse.”

And there was silence for a long moment following his words. He noticed both men were facing each other, expressions guarded and for the first time since Tom became Marek’s ward, he was uncertain of the two men’s relationship.

_Richard refused? He never refused Marek_. _Never._

He would question or make suggestions, but he obeyed. Always, until now.

“It wasn’t a request,” Marek said softly.

“I know,” the older man replied and seeing that Richard was immovable, Marek sighed.

“Why?” he asked.

And that’s where Tom thought the exchange got interesting. Richard’s eyes darted to Tom, before settling back on Marek.

“Master, I understand your need for discretion, but I think you could do with another pair of eyes,” he said.

Marek knitted his brows. “If you’re worried about our safety—”

Richard shook his head.

“No, no. It’s not your safety that is of concern, but your discovery. Master, I know.”

_What?_ Tom wondered. _What is he going on about?_ Seeing Marek’s irritable confusion at his lackluster explanation, Richard sighed, brows knitting and expression going placid.

“Your…you and young master Tom. I’m aware of your…rather queer abilities. I don’t understand them or why you have them. Seeing that you’ve never indulged in fanciful fortune telling or witchcraft, I can only assume that you received the blessing of the Lord when you awoke from your deathly illness the months before you adopted master Tom— “

_Wait—what?_

“—I have known you since you were a babe, but others will not be so understanding, so it is imperative that your gifts remain undiscovered. These are hunting grounds and while they may appear secluded, occasionally the odd hunter or two camp out in woods. I know, I have done it before. So, I’m urging you master to let me remain as a sentry.”

_No. He couldn’t mean…_ Tom was aware his eyes were nearly bulging unattractively. His eyes darted to Marek, who looked at Richard as though the man had grown a second head. Minutes passed in the silence that was broken by the wind and shaking trees. Had anyone seen them, Tom ventured to think that they might have thought them strange; what would an immaculately dressed man, a boy, and a butler be doing in the middle of secluded woodlands during wintertime London, their boots caked in mud.

_Richard knew._ _He knew!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> A continuation of Tom's winter break. Originally I thought to insert Marek, but I decided we can just as easily see the impact of his actions from Tom’s perspective and his understanding of them.
> 
> I tried to make my lesson on meditation, mental acuity, and magic as coherent and logically sound as possible. From my brief tryst with google, meditation wasn’t so hot in the west until the 1960s and Tom, as an orphan, doesn’t know what it is. Let me know if the lesson was hit or miss.
> 
> Floo Directory: magical version of the yellow pages. Who else used to read the yellow pages back in the Dark Ages? I was old enough to be the kid cutting out the pictures of women in bikini's 
> 
> Join me on Discord: https://discord.com/invite/E7pTzDh


	10. Pro Alchimia

" _The only real security that a man will have in this world is a reserve of knowledge, experience, and ability." – Henry Ford_

It's a half hour past ten o'clock when Marek and Tom walk through the barrier of Platform 9 ¾. They opted to arrive shortly before the rush of late arrivals. When they see the train, Tom is almost immediately accosted by a boy in similar attire and a green tie around his neck. A middle-aged woman who appeared to be his mother trailed behind.

"Riddle, pleasant Yule?" said the boy in greeting. His mother followed at a more sedate pace as they came nearer. She carried herself with a cavalier air, was of average height, pale skinned and brown-haired, and wore fine navy robes. Marek had a split-second debate with himself on whether he should cut and run but decided he had to face the music sometime. What is she compared to his exacting twelve-year-old? He returned her steady gaze inquisitively as she and her son stopped in front of them.

"Well enough Avery" said Tom. Avery, who looked a tad like his mother with his dark curls and eyes, gestured to her.

"This is my mother, Zenobia Avery. Mother, my year mate and housemate Tom Riddle."

Zenobia eyes flickered over them in scrutiny as Tom introduced Marek and they exchanged pleasantries. Marek was almost certain that this little run-in was orchestrated. No doubt that the few purebloods who dropped off their children got curious about him, and Tom who was already attracting attention at school was making friends with some of their children.

"Aedan doesn't make new friends very often," she said. The younger Avery pulled a grimace.

"Mother!" he protested. She smiled at him indulging.

"He's known many of his housemates since before Hogwarts," she explained, her words aimed at Tom as she peered at him curiously. "Aedan tells me you're quite gifted with magic."

Tom shrugged. "I have an excellent teacher."

He indicated to Marek and Zenobia's attention shifted to him.

"Marek has taught me and continues to teach me all he knows," said Tom.

"Is that so?" she asked. Marek inclined his head.

"I do, but I can't take all the credit. Tom is naturally gifted," he said, placing hands on Tom's shoulders.

"Don't undersell yourself," said Tom. "You would be a favored professor at Hogwarts."

Marek nearly rolled his eyes, amusement pulling at his lips; Tom was ever the advocate. He smoothed back the boy's hair.

"And I've told you before, I hardly have the patience," he said.

"High praise," interrupted Zenobia. "To be compared to a professor at the world's finest magical school. Mr. Canmore...that's not a name I recognize, are you perhaps new to Britain?" she asked, tilting her head.

Marek supposed that was a diplomatic way of asking, _Are you a pureblood from elsewhere because I don't know any pureblood Canmores of British descent?_

"From a certain perspective," he said evading. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but the younger Avery apparently had enough of their back and forth as he started pulling Tom toward the train. There was a sizable crowd now gathering around the station.

"Let's go find a cabin before they're all taken," he said. Tom nodded, casually shrinking and summoning his luggage into his hand before he slipped into his pocket. Aedan huffed and Tom shrunk his out of courtesy. Zenobia's eyes widened, and Marek fought down the grin seeking to bloom as his pride reared its head. Tom faced him, an impish smiling pulling at his lips and his eyes glinting. _The little gremlin_.

Marek pulled him into a quick hug before nudging him on his way. He made a show of glancing at the watch around his wrist.

"Mrs. Avery, it's been my pleasure, but I do have some other engagements," he said.

Impassively, she inclined her head. "I see, perhaps we'll meet again in a more agreeable setting," she suggested.

"Perhaps", he agreed and offered no more. She turned and he watched her make her exit.

Satisfied, he left without another thought, climbed into his car, and made the drive to Charing Road. Marek parked off at an intersecting road and doubled back to the Leaky Cauldron. He threw on a black cloak he grabbed as he entered the pub and made certain to cover his head before he walked into Diagon Alley.

The route to Knockturn Alley had become a familiar one in the past month and a half and he slunk into the district with a confidence that was half real due to experience and half false for the sake of deterring unsavory characters. Knockturn Alley was the wizard's version of a sordid bootleg muggle market that sold barely legal merchandise and of course illegal things as well. He passed lurking patrons on the path leading to The Coffin House.

Entering the grim and dingy shop, he nodded to Thicket Scabior, a portly man with thinning hair and crooked teeth, and strode to the back of the shop where the books were located. There was a wide selection of Dark Arts texts, but the one he homed in on was titled "Alchemical Necromancy". Coated in dust, the heavy tome had yellowing pages that were bound together by worn leather and a sturdy thread. His eyes flickered over it, noting the lack of an author's name. He hadn't thought the book relevant in his last visit, not like the ones containing actual death ceremonies but this time his intuition told him that it was a vital key to what he was looking for.

He purchased the book alongside several other related titles. Once he meandered out of the shopping district and reentered muggle London, he made his way home. Learie, the groundskeeper, greeted him at the gates and Marek had hardly returned the greeting before his footman and deputy butler, Frank, interceded. Marek found himself looking at this casual disregard with eyes inspired by the incident with Richard, and he wondered how Learie saw his bonds. With Richard, he learned not to judge the character and intelligence of his servants. His ever-dutiful shadow had known about their magical natures without them being any of the wiser, and yet he held his tongue and kept his counsel until he needed to speak it.

Marek could admit to himself that he was impressed and even appreciated the man's devotion. All the training Richard received at his butler academy with roots deep seeded in the Victoria era, had drilled the pillars of gracious servitude and dedication to one's family into his head. And beyond his butler training, he loved Arthur and Marek now benefitted from that devotion. Nevertheless, Marek couldn't have fathomed that Richard's reaction to their "queer abilities"—enough to start a witch hunt in 1939—would be so…matter of fact. He remembered his butler's smug amusement in the face of his shock; likely enjoying knocking his master out of his usual composure and Marek hadn't been able to begrudge him for poking fun. It must have been irritating to have his intelligence and sight insulted.

He had gotten so used to Richard's unobtrusive presence that he allowed himself to grow complacent, which said a lot about how his status in this life cycle had affected him. He went from being hyper aware of the people around him to selectively blind as the gentry tended to be.

Marek trudged the rest of the way into the house. A short while later, he settled into the privacy of his rooms. On the carpet, with his feet bare and legs crossed, he hunched over his books and notes. He perused the latest purchased text in front of him, making ticks with his pen wherever the information was relevant or worth revisiting. Distantly, he lamented the lack of post-it markers.

So far, most of the text was informational, long winded, and bulky. Sometimes he found sections instructing on the usage of one necromantic ritual or other. They went along the lines of how to communicate with the dead, how to leave ghostly impressions on objects, how to perform a dark ritual with potions, how to summon spirits using human body parts. They were all some form of dark magic with a list of unmentioned dubious effects, leaving Marek to wonder whether the unnamed author was an actual experienced necromancer or a dark arts practitioner lacking in understanding of proper grammatical notation. The contents of the book became repetitive after a while and he heaved a sigh with some annoyance. He paused however when he came across a curious section. It concerned the creation of…homunculus.

There were two graphics: that of an alchemy circle and the image of a child-like humanoid alongside. A memory of a scene abruptly pushed its way to the forefront of his mind; a stark white tangle of limbs was thrown into a pot, the grotesque twist of flesh and growing limbs, and Voldemort emerging from the depths of the cauldron malformed but strong and human all the same. His breath hitched.

His thoughts began spiraling, and he was thrown back to that ghost that had delivered her message. He never did see her again. Whether it was because she took offense at his rudeness or because she couldn't find him, she had disappeared. He might have regretted his hasty actions had he thought she knew more, which she had admitted that she didn't.

Why? From who? And what did she mean that death clung to him? Since his meeting with her, those questions had plagued him, spurring him to devour texts on necromancy. To find anything that might give verifiability to the influx of fantastical ideas that he had for reincarnation. He gave himself a migraine instead. The ghost's message had left him incensed and _hunted_. For the last two months, he had become a patron of Knockturn Alley; he practiced casting spells with more violent effects; he scrambled through texts of dubious morality for people with heinous intentions as he did now.

When he had calmed down from his agitated paranoia, he experienced some mild embarrassment and resolved to concentrate on what was important. The how or why of his return weren't immediate concerns. What was more pressing was how prepared he would be for any confrontations. Marek decided he would exercise extreme prejudice if he must; he wasn't so naïve as to think that the summoner's intentions were pure or could be reasoned. After studying the book some more, taking heavy notes and drawing diagrams of what he saw, he decided to consult an expert on the subject.

The sun was beginning to set, when Frank, filling in for Richard who had left for the week, came to inform him that dinner would be ready shortly. He nodded his thanks and sent him away. Shortly after dinner, Marek put together his letter for Alchemist Esmée Brun. Much like his other letters to her, he went straight to the point. She, like him, appreciated pragmatism and brevity.

_Dear Alchemist Brun,_

_I trust that this letter finds you well. This isn't another request for making iron ores with Mr. Magcrim, although you've done such fine work that I've profited handsomely. This is more along the lines of an investigative inquiry about a matter I feel you're best suited to address._

_To be concise, the subject matter I'm researching is about the creation of artificial life through means of alchemy. I'm not speaking of what generally amounts to the creation of primitive homunculi, but that of fully grown, fully conscious, and empathetic human beings. Anything you can share on the subject would be appreciated. I've attached a diagram of the circle that precipitated this inquiry._

_Regards,_

_Marek Canmore_

He sent the letter off with Beatrice. Two days later in his study, while he was in the midst of contemplating the ramifications of getting involved in Saudi Arabia's booming petroleum business, he received Brun's reply. He unfolded the letter to read:

_Monsieur Canmore,_

_It is only because I've found your acquaintance to be pleasant that I honor your request. This is not a subject that pursuers often tread with the purest intentions, so I am trusting that you prove to be a different sort of man. As my master has taught me and from my experience, just as good can be found in the arts of alchemy, so can evil. The alchemy behind fully formed and realized humans is not widely known and I do not know if it even exists, only that there have been attempts, mostly through sordid means._

_For as long as alchemists have transmuted lead into gold, so have they sought to transmute the "lower" self into the "higher" self. The "higher" self, like gold, embodied perfection. That is the basis behind most transmutations today. These witches and wizards have done this in the pursuit of the Magnum Opus, or the "Great Work" as all alchemists strive for. They have pursued it just as passionately as the Red Stone._

_What I can tell you about your drawing of the transmutation circle is that it is wrong and incomplete. It contains a basic transmutation circle, but the border is broken. The hexagon is representative of all alchemical elements, and the symbols for life and death are present. The two smaller circles with the curved lines represent a union of both states. If this is a transmutation to bring back the dead, then it will fail spectacularly. You shouldn't dare to attempt._

_My specialty in alchemy does not pertain to the human body and spirit, so I can tell you no more. It's common to find alchemical knowledge involving the use of blood, bone, or whole human parts, but the ones concerning the soul are limited. Which makes sense as the soul is an arcane entity to even experienced alchemists and performing soul magic is heavily discouraged, if not strictly forbidden. Knowledge of it and its sister, soul transmigration, is guarded well. If you need to learn more, you would need to consult a Guild Master at one of the Alchemy Guilds._

_However, I will say this, alchemy is not just the practice of transmuting things into better things. My master taught that there was a spiritual element required in employing advanced Alchemy, and some alchemists who become masters undergo a spiritual transmutation to become "enlightened" by the blessing of Thoth. It pains me to admit, but I'm not very good at it. Perhaps, you might find someone who is._

_Sincerely,_

_Alchemist Esmée Brun_

_Affiliate of Ankara Alchemy Society_

Marek reread the again before setting it down in front of him. He sunk further into his chair. All that Brun told him were things he could have inferred with more research. But he was more interested in her parting words. _Enlightened by the blessing of Thoth_. She made it sound as though alchemy had a... divine patron or religious component. The other thing that caught his attention was soul transmigration and he decided it warranted looking into as well. For now, Marek resigned himself to conducting minor research and strengthening the protections he put in place.

Around his townhouse were layers of wards that would shield against high powered explosive bombardments, installed courtesy of a Gringotts ward master who reacted to his specification with mild surprise. The wards extended several blocks in all directions from the house and it took about a fortnight to complete. He paid the warder for the extra 60 meters because it would look highly dodgy if his home was also the only building standing in the coming Blitz. It was a costly venture, but he wasn't willing to skive on his and Tom's safety with someone after him.

It was just as well that he also planned for an escape if it became necessary. He didn't know yet how to make a portkey, and the Ministry's information office informed him that they were produced and regulated by the Ministry, not that he had any qualms about going through illegal means. He decided apparition was the best method for traveling reliably, and so he went about learning it.

In the second week of January, he strode into a red phone booth on Whitehall Road and entered the Ministry. The attendant at the desk directed him to Level 6 where he obtained his license to apparate and scheduled lessons with a trainer, a Coriander Dots who would supervise his attempts as a safeguard. For all that he was meticulous at teaching himself, he wasn't arrogant enough to think he could attempt apparating on his own. In a secluded plot of field hidden from muggle eyes, Dots showed him the basics and Marek diligently followed his instructions to avoid splinching. He apparated successfully, starting from a few feets distance and increased his range every time

He thanked the man for the lessons and for the first time in that week, apparated into the basement of his home. Seeing the familiar tattered dummies in one corner, he made a satisfied sound.

* * *

When he walked out of the Reform club on a cool, bright day, there was commotion happening a street over. Marek merely sent a glance at the group of constables leading a man out of a building. But it was the surety of words spoken next that compelled him to direct attention to them once more.

"My name Marius Black! I bloody work here!"

He was nearly expecting to see a copy of Sirius Black but the face he glimpsed couldn't have been much younger than his twenty-seven years. Black chin-length hair, a stubborn furrow of dark brows, and a pallid face. None of the haggard tiredness of a fugitive's life or the gaunt depression of a falsely accused inmate. This Black was being escorted by two constables on either side of him to a car. Marek didn't think before hastily crossing the street, Richard keeping pace with him.

"Gentlemen!" He said, drawing their attention. Black hung between the officers, fury burning in his eyes. No doubt, he thought, no Black had ever been maltreated this way, by muggles no less. All the more reason he'll be grateful when Marek extracts him from his predicament. He fixed an amicable look at the constables.

"I hardly think you need to manhandle my good friend here. He's still new to London you see. Marius, are you alright?" He asked. Black stared at him incomprehensibly, before catching on to Marek's play.

"Certainly not! They wouldn't even let me explain myself!"

The constable to his left frowned. "The owner called us; said he was causing a disturbance."

He affected a sheepish expression and made placating motions with his hands.

"And I'm certain he's contrite. But please, let me handle him. I'll be sure to keep him out of trouble, of that, you have my word," he promised and reluctantly, the constables handed Marius over to him with a warning. Marek nudged Black's arm and led him in the direction of his car until they came to a halt.

"Who are you? Why did you help me?" the other man asked, having enough with the charades.

He snorted. "Not even a thank you?"

Black scoffed. "No one does anything for free. So, what do you want? You could have let them arrest me."

He dipped his head.

"You're right, no one does anything for free. But sometimes there are exceptions and right now you look like you could use a good meal and maybe a smoke," he offered, waving a hand at Black's ruffled appearance.

"I don't need your charity!" he said sneering.

"Of course, you don't," Marek mocked. "You have your whole life figured out, certainly didn't expect to be manhandled out of your job today, did you? I'm not offering charity; I want to use you."

Black frowned.

"You're a wizard," he said.

"No shit," said Marek and the other man scowled.

Black snorted in derision. "Well then, what do you want tosser? I'm not in the business of selling myself."

Surprised, he said, "You'd make a poor salesman besides. No charisma. But that's not why I need you either. I have a use for you."

The man tried to speak but Marek cut him off.

"Not to worry. It's nothing shady, dangerous, or otherwise ill reputed I promise. In fact, it's a rather agreeable job. Respectable. Perhaps, too respectable for the likes of you."

Marius sneered, but he continued, undeterred even as the man turned to leave.

"It comes with room, board, and of course, payment," said Marek. Black glanced back, pausing. "All I need from you is discretion, trust, and the ability to learn quickly."

"That's it? Am I supposed to believe that all you want from me is to keep your secrets and be trustworthy?" he jeered; eyes hard and considering.

"If you weren't skeptical at all, I'd call you a fool. But you can't expect to be choosy for a man in your position. I'm not asking you to be my house elf, only for your willingness to listen," he replied. He splayed his hands apart.

"What could it hurt you, Marius Black, to at least hear what I have to say?"

At his words, Black's jaw clenched, and Marek took notice of the lines in his face that he hadn't noticed before. They seemed to age him, and he wondered if Black wasn't even younger than he had expected. There was a tiredness that clung to him and which became more obvious the more Marek observed the man's indecision. Finally, grudgingly Black asked.

"What would this...job entail?"

He smiled hollowly.

* * *

The last of winter's breaths ceased as March dragged on by. Marek has now been in the past of an alternate dimension for three years and he suspects the official anniversary date is somewhere between the third and last weeks of the month. He decides to take an off day and indulge in some drinking and light reading. Richard opened a bottle of vintage wine and poured him a glass. Marek wanted to casually levitate the glass in front of him but remained hesitant. He isn't certain of how blatant performing magic in front of muggles had to be before the Ministry got involved.

He lifted the cup with his hand instead and balanced a book about dueling in his lap.

He's contemplating joining a dueling club, when Sumner stopped by. He hid his irritation at having his peace disturbed and buried the urge to throw the man out. For the sake of friendship and all that.

Sighing, he straightened his disarrayed appearance, laid the book face down, and invited Sumner into the room. The man walked in with his usual pomp and golden hair.

"I see you're in a celebratory mood," said Sumner, gesturing to the wine and glass.

Marek huffed. "I was, until the interruption."

Sumner put on an affronted expression.

"Well, my apologies for the lack of forewarning, but I thought it was best you hear it in person."

He grunted.

"Is it really?" He asked. "This isn't another one of your invitations to play cricket with your dear old uncle is it? Because the last time I went, I had to hear about the time he sunbathed in Bavaria with forty naked women and the food that ended on his genitals."

Sumner released a full bellied laugh at that, lines drawn into his long face.

"You'll never let that go, will you? It just so happens that you missed the event all together. I believe you were...doing whatever it is you do these days," he said.

"I work."

"An aspiring pack mule if I've ever met one. Commendable."

"Hn."

"Can't a man want to visit his best mate?" asked Sumner.

"When you visit you tend to bring your drama with you," Marek shot back.

"Twenty years, one would think you'd have gotten used to it by now."

Marek shook his head and grabbed a glass from a set kept on a table in the room. He poured Sumner and himself the wine. Once seated, he gestured for the man to go on.

"Have you heard of the Riddles?" Sumner started.

The cup stopped short of Marek's lips.

"The Riddles?" he echoed.

"Mm hm, of Little Hangleton, some two hundred miles north of London. They own the land comprising a village and some acres belonging to Great Hangleton. The family's well-off, landed gentry going generations back. Thomas Riddle the first, is the patriarch of the family and his wife Meredith Riddle..."

Marek nodded. "I assume there's a point somewhere in your monologue…"

Sumner smirked.

"I was getting to it," he said. Then he sobered. "There was a scandal about eleven years or so ago. Thomas Riddle the second married and ran off with the village pariah's daughter, ruining his family's reputation and ending his betrothal to Cecilia Astley. The slag he married had no proper name, no dowry, and lived in a shack with her mad brother and father on the outskirts of the village. Oh, how tongues wagged for days. Many months later, Riddle returned from his impromptu elopement talking about being bewitched."

Sumner snorted

"If he hadn't married her, I'd tell you he got bored and decided to wet his willy before being tied down."

"Or she gave him love potions," he said. Sumner chortled into his cup.

"Love potions! Arthur you say the strangest things. There have been rumors that your ward is his son with that woman, someone thought he looked like Riddle at the Christmas party."

Which likely meant anyone else who knew Thomas Riddle Sr. would have seen the resemblance in his Tom. If the Riddles didn't already know about a child carrying their name, Marek would eat his own socks. In all honesty, he hadn't given any thought to them; hardly knew enough about them to make a judgement. If what Sumner said was true, then Tom was a legitimate child and the Riddle's heir, and Marek anticipated that they would come knocking soon. Just then, there was rapping on the door.

"Enter," he said. A smartly outfitted Marius Black strode into the room, carrying several papers in hand. Marek sighed, and Sumner looked on curiously.

"Black. This couldn't wait?" He asked. Black smirked at him.

"I explicitly remember you said to run these things by you."

"Yes, but not every single little paper. Isn't that what I'm paying you for?" he quipped. Black sniffed haughtily.

"Your kinds the ones with all this needless paperwork," he shot back. Marek sighed, taking them from him.

"No rest for the wicked," he said.

"None indeed," said Black. "Do you need me further?"

"No, you can go home if you're done."

"Very well."

Black left the room, Sumner eyes trailing after him.

"Your assistant?" asked Sumner.

"Yes."

"Quite young," Sumner remarked. There was a darker undercurrent to his tone, a departure from his previous amicable self.

Marek nodded. "He is but his work is decent enough."

"As opposed to someone with more experience and a... better pedigree?" he asked.

Amusement tugged at Marek lips as he imagined the Blacks' reaction to a muggle contesting their pedigree.

"I took a chance on him. I like to think that he's a worthwhile investment," he said. Sumner scoffed, bitterness coloring his tone.

"You're all about investments now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Let me know how I did!
> 
> discord: /invite/E7pTzDh


	11. Pro Socius

_‘Those who are coerced by force become our enemies, those who succumb to reason become our allies.’ ― Alexandre Duma_

For the first time in his life, Marius is being escorted by muggle aurors like a common criminal. _His ancestors would surely be rolling in their graves, if they would even afford the outrage to roll over on his behalf!_ He’s furious and cursing the muggles at his unfair treatment and indignant of the likelihood of being jailed when he’s promptly rescued.

The man that talked down the constables was good-looking and neatly dressed, just like the men he sometimes saw when he walked past the government buildings and wealthier centres in London. The gentility in his deep, baritone voice bespoke of his pedigree even if his appearance and his servant did not, which they did. The handsome gentleman called Marius his friend, and Marius played along for the sake of his release, and to his relief it came. He followed as his rescuer led him toward the black and silver automobile on the other side of the street. Out of patience, he let his curiosity get the better of him.

Their subsequent talk dissolved into barbs and Marius felt his apprehension for the man, who he learns is a wizard, grow. He’s about to leave when the arrogant tosser, going by the name Marek Canmore, entreated him to listen. Marius wanted to tell him to sod off no matter the debt he owed for his rescue but there was _something_ about Canmore that arrested him. A power in his presence that commanded his attention and against his better judgement, Marius accepted. Canmore’s answering grin only made him warier.

He let himself be ushered into the muggle contraption and Canmore’s servant drove them to an elegant restaurant, where they’re escorted to a secluded part of the building. Sitting in the velvet chair in a room of simple luxury is both familiar and alien to Marius. It’s enough to remind of his days as a member of the ancient and noble house of Black and he feels ages old bitterness resurge. The food looks divine and the wine excellent, but his pride prevented him from eating despite the slight hunger that gnawed his belly. Again, he questioned Canmore’s intentions.

The other man, already in the middle of nursing his glass of wine, wandlessly threw up a privacy charm eliciting raised brows. He spoke his intentions to Marius.

“So, you want me to teach you about wizarding traditions, and families and in return, you’ll give me lodging and pay me to also manage your affairs?” he summarized.

“That’s correct,” said Canmore.

“As opposed to learning them from a book?” he questioned, tone filled with doubt.

“I could learn from a book or from someone with experience. Which do you think is the better teacher here?” Canmore asked.

“But you’re a wizard,” he said.

“Undoubtedly. But I wasn’t raised in a wizarding household, despite my ancestry,” said Canmore. Curiosity peaked, he asked.

“What lineage are you tied to?”

He observed as the other man considered the question momentarily.

“Lestrange,” Canmore finally supplied, to which he laughed in honest surprise.

“Lestrange? Tch, I’ll make sure to water the flowers at your grave,” he mocked, and Canmore’s brows hiked.

“That unforgiving, are they?” 

Marius merely nodded his head, regarding the man with clearer eyes. He could see it now, the features Canmore shared with the Lestranges. If he was of their lineage, then it was in his sculpted jaw, thin nose, amber eyes, and wiry frame. By Canmore’s age, if Marius had to guess, the man could be Corvus Lestrange’s son and Merlin knew that man relished in his... _raping_ . He was notorious for using the _Imperius_ curse and people gossiped. _There were the rumors of the manner in which Leta Lestrange came to be born after all_ , he thought. He wouldn’t be surprised if Canmore did in fact turn out to be Lestrange’s illegitimate son.

“You don’t know the half of it. I’d tell you not to advertise that, but you’d have no better luck being known as a mudblood. The Lestranges are one of the purest families in Wizarding Britain, not quite like mine, but close enough.” he explained.

“Hmph.”

“Why do you want to learn anyway?” he asked. “What do you get out of it?”

“I have a child in my care, who's descendant to an ancient and noble bloodline. I would bet that his family is even purer than yours or was before his conception. They died out due to inbreeding.” Canmore said. Marius grimaced as his mind raced with possibilities.

“Not likely,” he denied, but the other man remained certain.

“Oh, very likely. House Slytherin might have fallen into obscurity, but with him it still lives, and he speaks parseltongue,” said Canmore. The silence lingered between them, leaving only the gentle flow of music and distant clinking as Marius contemplated this unexpected discovery.

There was power in names. A name said a lot about a person, their heritage, and their strength. The Black name told people of a family with a long, pure, and wealthy bloodline, and even as a squib, Marius can expect better treatment than if he were another irrelevant and magicless person. Their name implied their reputation and gave them clout. They had been Lords since before the Statue of Secrecy was enforced and held voting power in the Ministry. A name like Slytherin attested to much the same reputation and even more. Even though they’d fallen into obscurity and the male line was thought dead, it still garnered much respect amongst many circles. If what Canmore said was true, then House Slytherin had just gained an heir apparent. If the boy claimed it, it could shift the politics around.

“And you want me…to what? Teach you both about wizarding customs?” he asked. It seemed too good to be true. A few lessons here and there for lodging and a paying job? Granted he needed them both, but it felt like incentives leading to a trap.

"What's the catch?" He asked, certain there was one. To his credit, Canmore didn't waste time trying to convince him otherwise. 

"You'll need to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Nothing that is vital and requires discretion pertaining to either myself, my household, or my interests can be discussed with other parties. If you accept this role, you'll be signing a binding contract overseen by Gringotts. Accepting the job isn't necessary but I recommend that you do,” Canmore said.

“Why is that?” he asked.

“The Draft. You may not be aware, but the muggle world came out of a catastrophic war a little over ten years ago. And despite some parties’ best efforts, the situation has deteriorated again that another war will dawn upon us before the year is out.” He paused, before saying. “The worst is yet to come.”

Marius huffed. He wanted to keep asking Canmore if his offer was truly legitimate but dismissed the thought right away. The man didn't strike him as someone who enjoyed repeating himself.

"I don’t particularly care about muggles and their war,” he replied. Near golden eyes bored holes into him and he resisted the urge to glance away. Canmore sighed, as though exasperated with him.

"You should. You've been living among them, working among them, and in their eyes, are counted as one of their citizens. When the war comes, and make no mistake it will come, the muggle prime minister is going to issue orders conscripting men to fight. Be they poor, rich, known or irrelevant. Only exceptions will be made for the infirm or those who hold vital roles. It’ll matter to you then if you're forcibly pulled to the front lines,” Canmore said.

Marius glanced away. _So Canmore knew or suspected that he was a squib_. He was doubtful and wanted to reject the words, but there was truth in them. He wasn’t ignorant to the muggle’s current political situation, and despite his diminished frequency in the magical community, news still trickled to him occasionally either by prophet or Dorea’s letters. There had been word that Grindelwald’s had gotten bolder in his recruitment and the warnings he'd given about a war years ago was starting to circulate again. He wondered if this was the same war Grindelwald was talking about.

After the incident earlier, he wanted to swear off working with muggles ever again. It was only that they had better paying opportunities than his own kind was willing to provide him that he would do so again. _And wasn’t that galling to know,_ he thought. He was treated marginally better by muggle strangers than his own kind. _His own family._

Realizing that they strayed off topic, he frowned. 

"The muggles can wage their war. I doubt they would affect wizard kind either way, and I can make my own arrangements for protection" he said. Canmore's face bled into amusement. 

"I'm certain that they already have in some ways," he said. "Do you know what the problem with Britain's wizarding kind is, it’s that they're content to stick their heads in the sand and wait for the problem to go away. Only the problem doesn't go away, because it fucks them in the ass instead. Is that what you're waiting for Black?”

“I don't see why you think that concerns me Canmore. Unlike you, I wasn’t blessed by blind fortune. My ability to change my fortunes was ground to dust by the time I turned eleven," he said bitterly. If Canmore was surprised at the revelation of his squibness, he gave no indication meaning he’d already know. The other man merely leaned further back into his seat to regard him.

“Poor you," said Canmore. The dismissive, mocking response aroused his displeasure. Heedless of Marius' feelings, the man continued to needle him. "Helpless beyond measure even as muggles manage to get by. Are you finished with your pity party Black?”

Fury surged under his skin and Marius wanted to throw his cup at the other man. _I’ll show you helplessness!_ he wanted to bark. It was experience that forced him to temper his rage down to a banked fire. _He would not be provoked_ . He'd learned his lesson about lashing out years ago, by _crueler, stronger_ people. Canmore was nothing. He settled for a sneer, resisting the urge to pummel the man. Canmore raised his hands in a placating motion.

“Contrary to what you might think Black, I’m honestly trying to help you,” he said. Marius snorted in derision.

“I don't follow the dogma that squibs, and muggles alike are inferior. That is a fallacy bolstered by arrogance and compounded by the perceived notion, that blood reflected one’s magical strength. Those of your kind might be lacking in magic, but not inferior? No. It is hubris to think otherwise and I can prove it to you. As far as I'm concerned if one is able-bodied and sound of mind, one can be of use. Or they can make something of themselves. That is what I want to do with you Marius Black. What do you want?" asked Canmore.

Marius remained contemptuously silent. Unfazed, Canmore let the chilling quiet, cold like the vice grip of winter, linger between them. Marius could leave. He wanted to leave but he remained glued to his chair. Under those stalking eyes he felt as though he was being examined, tested, and found failing.

"You don't know anything about me," he said sharply. _What right did Canmore think that he could judge him too?_ Canmore peered at him over the rim of his glass, and he merely replied,

"No, I don't."

Thrown off-kilter, Marius had no response and he glanced away, jaw clenched so tightly that the bone ached. Feeling raw, he quickly drained his wine glass, and internally cursed himself for showing weakness. They fell into a listless silence once more. 

The spread of food on the table had gotten cold in the hour they spent talking and remained untouched by both men. Marius felt the slightest tinge of guilt at the wastefulness of it. No longer giving any fucks, he ended up nibbling on a piece of roasted chicken. He regretted it immediately when he felt the nausea rise. _Or was it shame?_ He wasn’t sure. They didn’t speak for five or more minutes and by then his anger had cooled considerably. It was still there but was joined by newfound resolve driven by a sense of purpose. _He had his answer_. He glanced at Canmore.

"I accept," he said, drawing the man’s attention. Canmore said nothing, merely regarded him pensively until Marius felt exposed.

"I accept your offer," he repeated. The other man's mask broke to show his surprise and he took that as a victory. Unexpectedly, Canmore didn't ask for his reasons, or maybe he didn't care. He merely acted, in what Marius has come to realize, like his default enigmatic self.

"You're welcome," Canmore said. "I'm giving you the chance to help shape a future leader. Now eat, no use for all this food to go to waste."

Marius compiled, but after a moment, he asked. "Why is it that you think he'll be a leader?"

Canmore appeared to gather his thoughts.

"Tom is a precocious child. Very intelligent, quick-witted, and ambitious. He's likely to succeed in whatever he puts his mind to and naturally that means he will lead." he answered.

"So? What makes him a special snowflake other than his lineage and the fact that he’s smart? There are plenty of children the same way."

"Not like him," came the immediate reply. Canmore's emotionless orbs seemed to brighten, lending them an unearthly glow. He continued speaking as if prophetical.

"He has the potential to make history. People like that either become revolutionaries or anarchists; saviors or dark lords."

Curiosity peaked, he asked. 

"And which is he?" 

Canmore lips quirked into a wan smile. 

"Definitely not a savior,” he said. “He doesn’t have the patience for that.”

It took another second for him to understand what that meant.

* * *

Several days later, Marius walked through the front door of his new apartment, No.15. The Concord Apartments where he now lived were a series of Edwardian inspired terraced buildings in the heart of London. Well established in one of the busiest parts of the city, Hanover Square, they were relatively brand new, uniformed, and as a matter of principle, a stark contrast to the chipping red bricked condominiums Marius had been living in for the past several years. Its cream-colored appearance made it stand out against the sprawl of the district’s shops and the assortment of businesses and apartments owned by rivals of Willaby Estates. A week prior Marius had once been one of the many people that would briefly admire the Concord Apartments from a distance as he passed, today he counted himself among its residents.

He toured the apartment, pleasantly surprised at finding it fully furnished, and trying to ignore his sudden bout of uncertainty. After he spent an hour in a chair on the terrace, people watching and eating a sandwich, he gave up. He wrote a letter to Dorea.

_Sister,_

_Apologies, I know it’s been a while since I’ve last written. Life has gotten away with me; you wouldn’t believe the things muggle get up to. How are you? Are you still ill? I’d ask about your husband, but you know I never got on well with Potter._

_My fortunes have changed recently but nevertheless I’m doing well. I met a man a week prior, a wizard. Curious thing, he acts like a fitting pureblood in muggle clothing, but I think he’s halfblood. He claims to be a Lestrange. I think he might be Corvus Lestranges’ son. You remember when mother and father used to talk about how his son, Corvus V, went missing? I don’t know if it's actually him, but he’s of the age to be the result of the man’s many dalliances._

_Anyhow, he offered me a job in his business and asked me to teach him and a boy about traditions and wizarding families. You won’t believe what I learned. He claims the boy is supposedly the heir to House Slytherin and that he speaks parseltongue. I haven’t met him yet, as he’s at Hogwarts, so I can’t verify the claim. But Canmore, that is his name, doesn’t strike me as a liar._

_I can’t tell you the full measure of his character yet, but what I glimpsed intrigued me enough to accept the job. What I can tell you, is that he’s a complete arse and very, very capable._

_Your loving brother,_

_Marius_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, Marius Black, a disowned squib trying to get by in muggle London. He was the third child of Cygnus and Violetta Black, brother to Pollux, Cassiopeia, and Dorea Black. I couldn’t really find much about him other than the basic information, so I went with trying to capture what a disowned pureblood squib would feel like living amongst muggles and feeling robbed of his inheritance. I only hope did him some justice.
> 
> Join me on https://discord.com/channels/729838062359805983/729838062900609026 and share your love, hate, or ideas.


	12. Pro Negotium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not very confident about this one but here you go.

_"Profit is sweet, even if it comes from deception" – Sophocles_

_"Why would you tell me about Slytherin’s heir?" Marius asked._

_“Would you have accepted the role if I hadn’t?” he shot back. “It was an enticing opportunity to meet a descendant of a Founder.”_

_He saw a wry smile cross Marius' face._

_"I asked first, but probably not. I don’t work for wizards. I don't like muggles, but I can work with them. They don't have the power to force me to do anything. But wizards…wizards can do a lot." Marius’ expression closed off and Marek nodded his understanding. A moment of silence passed between them as he considered what Marius had told him. Finally, he spoke._

_"I told you about Tom because keeping it a secret no longer held much weight," he said. "Regrettably, the reveal was taken entirely out of my hands while Tom was at Hogwarts. He encountered a snake while in his Care of Magical Creatures class and spoke parseltongue in front of his friends. They have likely informed their parents…"_

_"Ah, so the rumors will have already spread," Marius concluded. Marek nodded, remembering Zenobia Avery’s approach._

_“I thought you didn’t believe me?” he asked._ _Marius shrugged._

_"Tom is a half-blood with a very muggle name," said Marek. "He comes from a muggle-dominated origin so unless he goes around speaking parseltongue to the people he meets, he’ll likely be discounted as an audacious pretender. I’ve told him to not go around advertising it for now even if his friends talk of his claim. There will be people speculating the truth until they can verify it for themselves.”_

_He glanced at Marius._

_“I imagine there have been pretenders before, yes?” he prompted._

_The other man pursed his lips in thought, his face pinched._

_“There have,” Marius confirmed. “They're claims are usually dismissed as contrived gossip, and as it later turned out they were right to. One man a century ago claimed he could speak to a horned serpent he kept in a pool and under guard. When asked to prove it, he got himself bitten, devoured and the snake ran loose killing some muggles before being killed itself…Still, enough rumors from different sources would draw interest.”_

_Marek nodded, acquiescing somewhat. That’s assuming they cared enough to, he thought. They would likely just dismiss Tom from his obvious muggle origins. Even if they searched the Ministry’s records, they wouldn’t find much of anything. The Ministry, if he took Dumbledore at his word, didn’t keep extensive files on students with largely muggle backgrounds beyond what Hogwarts sent to them upon the student’s acceptance. Simply put, because they didn’t bother to keep track of muggle relations beyond the students’ guardians, usually their parents._

_“Seeing as Slytherin's line fell away hundreds of years ago, and their descendants have vanished from the public's eye, they won’t believe Tom’s claim is real unless he proves it,” he mulled aloud. “Who should I worry about?”_

_“Malfoy if he cared, Lestrange since you’re claiming heritage. MacNair maybe. Alabaster MacNair will likely be more interested in you than him if he hears about your business. He’s known to be like a blood hound sniffing out a bone when galleons are involved. He has his fingers in different pies and like you, he doesn’t shy away from doing transactions with muggles…or at least exploiting them accordingly.” said Marius._

_“None from your family?” he asked. Marius smirked._

_“Tch, they’re more likely to spit at you,” he said._

_“Hn, well then here’s your chance to start earning your keep. Tell me more about Alabaster MacNair. Family, standing, work, connections. All in that order,” he commanded._

_“Not Malfoy or Lestrange? I thought you’d be more interested in the more popular of the three or your blood relations,” said Marius with slight surprise._

_“In due time,” he replied. Marius sighed and Marek glanced at him. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts, so he patiently waited. When he was ready, Marius spoke._

* * *

According to Marius, MacNair came from an old family, one of the sacred twenty-eight as he called it. Pureblood and proud with plenty of allies in the Ministry. MacNair had a wife and son, Laurelette and Macellus MacNair; the latter who was already a Hogwarts’ student. He worked in the Ministry’s International Magical Trading Standards Body and owned MacNair Magical Travel Management. A business that arranged vacation packages and travel for tourists around the world. Apparently, he had an office in London.

He listened to Marius, riveted on that nugget of information. He wondered where the dealings with muggles came in. Did MacNair dedicate an office for muggle travel as well or did he have another business on the side? He couldn’t see any pureblood allied with Malfoy being personally involved in such exchanges. He could only presume that MacNair did as he did; offered services or goods to a smoke screen business which to muggles appeared to be operated on an entirely legitimate basis and then arranged for said services or goods to be sold to actual muggle vendors. If he was smart, MacNair would not have been remiss in casting a good _confundus_ or two when he could get away with it. It also helped his case, Marek thought, that he had some political clout. He wondered how to create something of that nature on a larger scale, say for…the extraction and sale of fossil fuel in the middle east.

He grilled Marius but learned nothing more, the younger explaining that he had drawn away from wizarding society shortly before his sixteenth birthday. A pitying uncle “Phineas” left him some money and a “Dorea” put him up until he reached his majority. The wizarding world was not kind to squibs.

The first thing Marek did after the magical contract and NDA signing was getting Marius set up in an apartment. Then, he handed him off to Hannah, his secretary at Willaby Estates. Marius had shown himself to be a conscientious individual and quick on his feet, but he would be no use to Marek right now without a deeper understanding of muggle finances and business. The younger man had some experience in accounting from his previous jobs, but Hannah would give him a steadier foundation. Intermittently, he would also shadow Marek, another accountant, and a broker as they went about their duties. Marek could tell the man was a little overwhelmed in the beginning, but he was assured by Marius’ lack of complaint and his growing confidence in asking questions. When he asked Marius about his work history, he mentioned working in similar roles.

_“…I worked in book-keeping in a second-hand book shop in Carkitt Market. That’s in Diagon Alley. Left there shortly afterwards. Had my first muggle job at a bookstore too, courtesy of the Liaison office,” he had said._

The role Marek was preparing him for was that of assistant controller. Currently, Marek’s own role was the corporate controller in Willaby Estates. It consisted of him consolidating their financial reports from multiple bookkeepers and accounting books. Unlike twenty-first century CFOs who stood visibly next to CEOs, much of this period counterparts were no better than glorified accountants. None of the complexity and accounting methods of the twenty-first century was present nor did computers yet exist, much to his despair; although there wasn’t nearly as much paperwork involved as would eventually become the norm in the future. Years of working in the emergency room was much, _much_ more stressful and paper filled than this, he thought. He took to the role easily enough; despite Charles’ delusion that it was a fitting punishment for his continued bachelorhood. His “father” thought to deny him a seat on the board and Marek enjoyed spiting him by worming his way there anyway.

With the start of spring, the days grew steadily warmer and he observed as Marius grew more competent in his work. He had begun shunting some of his workload onto Marius to which he received baleful glares, even as he occasionally monitored the man’s progress and gave him input. Sometimes Marius would stop by his home to ask questions or get his signature AND Richard and the staff were informed to allow him entry. Marek could tell Marius’ is somewhat wistful of the luxury in his home, muggle it was. He was also unnerved by the idea of muggle servants, asking Marek how he could trust them and their work ethic. Marek shrugged, remarking on their professionalism and longevity with the family.

* * *

While Marius organized the company’s various bookkeeping logs into a sensible report for him, he made overtures to Sumner. He knew he had been remiss in maintaining his friendships; he realized that his relationships with his friends have been left fraying for too long. Although, he regularly reached out to them and kept in touch, it wasn’t the flutter and pomp of talk and activity that Arthur would have done. In the face of their befuddlement at his metamorphosis, he’d been swinging between caring and not caring. He decided a while ago that it would be too much of a hassle trying to explain why he no longer participated actively within their circle. Using Tom’s presence in his life as an excuse made it both easier and harder to deflect their curiosity. 

While he was never the most dependent on relationships, he understood the value of maintaining some of them. So he took steps to rectify this oversight. With Sumner, it was usually an easy thing. Over twenty years of companionship and the glowing torch he held for Arthur made him amicable to his company, but it also made dealing with him a headache.

Since the new year, he visited the gentlemen’s club more often, had dinners with him and his wife, Ruth, played cricket and even harangued him into working with him for Willaby Estates. It wasn’t merely for appearances sake that his efforts were wasted, but that Sumner came with connections he needed. His father, Abraham Holland had strong political ties and was friends of friends who worked in England’s Oil and Gas Authority; the very government agency that tendered government contracts to oil companies. With the benefit of knowing the man and the fact that Charles supported the older Holland when he lobbied on behalf of his other politicking friends, Marek was certain he would help.

There was one unexpected rift he hadn’t anticipated and that was Marius’ and Sumner’s mutual dislike of each other. The former’s occasional presence at his side seemed to stoke Sumner’s agitation, a fact which from Marius smirks at their meetings, had become blaringly obvious. After the first few times trying to whether Sumner’s increased prickliness, he made sure to just meet the man alone. He managed to convince Sumner to speak to his father on his behalf, while he pushed Charles. 

Charles was reluctant and uncertain of venturing into an industry he knew nothing of; downright averse to the idea of Willaby Estates becoming parent company to a stagnating oil company as he proclaimed. But Marek spoke promises of profit and uttered assurances, magical words that fell off his lips like honey. He poured will into them, all the while imagining an agreeable Charles, _a pliable Charles_ , brimming with excited. When the older gentleman enthusiastically accepted his ideas, he knew he'd done something short of the _imperius curse_. The ability to _subvert_ the will of others, he thought with intrigue and awe. 

He did the same to Winston Mallard, although it wasn’t difficult at all; quite the opposite. He was sure he could have pulled it off even without the magic imbued in his words. It was easy enough to entice Mallard with a tidy bow wrapped oil contract and on April 14th, Willaby Estates became the parent company to Mallard Oil Company. With the blessing of England's largest oil conglomerate, the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company, Mallard obtained a subcontract and license to begin drilling in the Agahari oil field in southwest Iran.

To his surprise and delight things proceeded very quivkly. Even with Abraham's good word, his expectation was that the process would take at least several weeks and more negotiation before Mallard was awarded the contract; it happened in twelve days. His surprise was cured when the Military Training Act passed in the following week, announcing the first draft orders. Britain's parliament had made their thoughts clear and they wanted to guarantee a veritable supply line of fuel.

War was no longer a possibility, it was imminent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> So yeah, the beans were already spilt. Can’t make things easy for Marek. I need to edit some previous chapters.
> 
> Who is Alabaster MacNair? I made him up. Walden MacNair was a canon death eater and the executioner that was going to kill Buckbeak. So Alabaster is his uncle.
> 
> Join me on discord: https://discord.com/invite/E7pTzDh


	13. Pro Denegation Trascendentium

_“It is our duty as men and women to proceed as though the limits of our abilities do not exist.” -Pierre Teilhard de Chardin_

_April 28, 1939_

_PURPOSE: PHYSICAL AUGMENTATION – ALTERING CELLS TO BE ROBUST WHEN TAKING INJURIES_

_PHASE 1: EXPERIMENT BY MANIPULATING CELLULAR REGENERATION THROUGH MAGICAL MEANS_

_Trial No.1_

_Objective: compare regenerate capabilities of murtlap essence and essence of dittany through direct application on an open wound_

_Procedure: Brewed both murtlap essence and essence of dittany. Once I created two superficial cuts on the subject, known as POS-1, both potions were applied directly onto the wound._

_Result: Essence of dittany was the more effective potion in this case. Near instantaneous healing and no scarring. Murtlap was nearly as fast but there is still scarring. May take an hour for cut to disappear_

* * *

_April 29, 1939_

_Trial No.2_

_Objective: test regenerate capabilities of murtlap essence and essence of dittany against the effectiveness of healing spells such as episkey and the stamina charm by direct application to an open wound_

_Procedure: …_

_Result:_

_\- Refer to results in Trial No. 1 for murtlap essence and dittany_

_\- Episkey and stamina charm induced instantaneous healing, though the former was the most effective_

_Observation: Healing spells were more effective than potions_

_Addtnl Notes: Method of application may be a contributing factor to the level of effectiveness: digestion vs direct application to wound. Method of magical exposure may be another factor; Episkey is a pure and unmixed application of magic directly from a wand_

* * *

May 2, 1939 

TRIAL No.3 IN PROGRESS

Hypothesis: Imbuing magic directly into the wound accelerates the cell division process and thus speeds up the healing process.

The light filtering from the open basement windows was just bright enough for Marek to brew this potion. He stirred once clockwise and then added the Murtlap Tentacles. Then, peppermint. Fumes were beginning to drift through the air above the cauldron and he blinked away the wetness in his eyes. He rapidly mixed the brewing convocation clockwise for the next three minutes. When the mixture was yellow, he hummed in satisfaction and turned the stove’s heat down low. The potion would need to brew for the next twenty minutes. 

Beyond the simmering sounds of the cauldron, he heard faint squeaks.

Stepping back, he moved onto another cauldron that held a clear liquid in its bowels. He grabbed one vial from a set of six from nearby and used a silver ladle with a spout to fill it with the clear liquid. He repeated the process with the other vials until the set was complete and stored them in a black potion’s satchel. The Wiggenweld potion had a shelf-life of three months; a month more than the Murtlap Essence. He didn’t expect to use either potion in the coming weeks but...with where he was going, he could never be too sure. 

It wasn’t the first time he brewed them. They were relatively simple potions, and a pre-Hogwarts child could make both given time and practice. However, in this instance, it was more than mastery and paranoia that necessitated their brewing. 

He checked the Murtlap Essence and cast _tempus_ ; seven minutes until it was done. During that time, he cleaned the table and alcove that he christened as the “potions lab” in the basement. It was a vestibule, the furthest point away from the dummies where light from the windows could still reach and allow for brewing. Casting tempus once more, he waited out the last several seconds before turning the heat under the cauldron off. Then he added some flobberworm mucus until the bisque liquid thickened somewhat. Satisfied with the result, he bottled and stored the mixture as he did the Wiggenweld but left one vial on the desk.

He cast a quick scourgify, pulled on some gloves, and from under the table, pulled out a box. Squeaks erupted from it but he paid it no mind as he lifted the cage that was inside and placed it on the table. A white possum was inside.

“Shall we begin,” he said to it. 

Sometime later after he had sedated the animal using a wizarding tranquilizer he administered through its food, he laid it out on the table. It was strapped down with a leather harness and about a foot away, laid a collection of tools: a scalpel, tweezers, goggles, a magnifying glass, a notebook and pen, and a microscope kindly given to him by an old professor with much persuasion. 

He pulled his chair closer to his experiment and put on the goggles. As he picked the scalpel with his gloved right hand, he placed one hand on the animal’s hind leg. The first incision was light, but the leg lurched—and it seemed his little friend was still awake to feel _._ Copper red blood oozed out of the wound and fell over the curve of its leg. He placed the scalpel down. Healing potions didn’t have the type of regenerative speed he was looking for, so he cast _episkey_ to mend the cut, just to see the speed of its effect. The area was still smeared with blood but fully healed. 

He made another incision. This time he removed his gloves and attempted to mend the cut wandlessly. He held the magnifying glass over the possum's leg with his left hand and placed his right fingers alongside the cut in a lateral fashion. He wasn’t thinking of any particular healing spells, merely how to heal by speeding up the regenerative process. A superficial, two-inch cut like this, undergoing normal cell division, would take several days to repair. Through magic, it would take only an instant or a couple of hours depending on which method was applied and what, spells or potions. He wanted to explore a third method, a preventative one. If he made the skin more robust to breakage, healing wouldn't be needed at all or needed minimally. But that was a task for later. For now, he needed to see if he could manipulate the cells to close the wound.

Gradually, he pushed his magic through his fingers and into the wound. The possum’s leg kicked out, but he only pressed down firmly. He wasn’t sure what would happen. In his mind, there wasn’t a clear goal beyond speeding up cell division to close the wound—he could only imagine what that looked like in theory. His fingers felt warm and under the magnifying glass, he could see an effuse of blood and congealing mucus pooling around the cut. 

The next part happened quickly like a geyser erupting and he pulled his fingers away, leaning back as he did so. Where the cut was located, a dermal ridge grew, forming an overgrowth of caked blood, flesh, and fur all clumped together. The ridge broke into smaller ridges, branching out like a tree in different directions, and then it stopped. Nothing more happened except for the animal’s quivering body.

Where there had been a smooth swatch of white fur, now there was a bloody web of ruin and excess skin. A weak spasm of the leg drew his attention to the depressions formed by his fingers. He glanced at his right hand and saw the melted fur and skin. He hadn’t even noticed it was burning. _Hm_.

He wiped his hand clean using a rag folded on the table next to him and then plotted some notes in his journal.

Procedure: I sealed the wound by pushing magic into it wandlessly. The magic was imbued with the intent to seal by rapid cell division on the epidermis. 

Results:

\- Caused rapid skin overgrowth in subject

\- Overgrowth in the form of raised skin on the epidermis is a mess of skin, blood, and fur; web-like ridges

\- Produced excessive heat. 

He glanced at the possum, noting for the frantic rise and fall of its chest, its bulging beady eyes, and the tongue hanging out of its mouth. 

Conclusion: Inconclusive; incision sealed but the area has mutated, and cells may be cancerous; attempt is possibly life-threatening

Addtnl Notes: need further testing and to observe subject; is heat a product of his magic or a byproduct of the enhanced speed of regeneration?

He closed the journal and set it aside. He healed any remnants of the possum’s wound with his wand and applied the vial of Murtlap Essence to ease its pain. He had other possums but no use losing a subject from negligence.

* * *

_May 3, 1939_

_CONT. TRIAL No.3_

_Procedure: Created a new incision on the subject's midsection. Then I applied magic directly onto the wound with the intent to restore the skin to its original unbroken state by accelerating mitosis._

_Result:_

\- _Caused rapid skin growth_

\- _Wound has sealed with minimal ridges on the epidermis_

\- _produced less heat_

_Conclusion: Success._

_Addtnl Notes: less heat maybe has been the result of focusing more on palliative healing than rapid regeneration. Further tests needed_

* * *

A quick _tempus_ let him know he needed to end the experiment here for the time being. He cast a few _scourgifys_ around his workspace and left the solitude of the basement. When he stepped into the hallway, he breathed deeply. He might as well have emerged atop a snowy mountain with how crisp, biting, refreshing the air compared to the fumes that stank the basement from his brewing. He sighed softly and strode past the dining room eager for a shower. An intermingling of distressed voices reached him as he entered the great hall and took the stairs.

"Sally, you don't know that—"

"They're sending me boy off to training, what else are they needin’ him for!" said Sally, voice tinged with hysteria.

"Shh! Hush now," said Margaret. "This is not the proper place for this conversation. Come along. Ada, be a dear and put on a pot of tea for the poor woman."

"Yes, missus."

Their voices drifted away as he climbed the steps. He stopped by the solar, unlocked the door and stuffed the potions purse at the bottom of a cabinet. He could think about organizing them later. For now, he had a shower to take and a place to be. 

After he had showered and dressed in a grey suit complete with a vest and a black coat that hung to his knees, he left the townhouse with his car. About a block away from prying eyes, he disapparated and reappeared into an alley next to a barbershop in Covent Garden, central London. Going west, he passed the doorstep of the London Coliseum in favor of the red and brown brick building. A single dark brown door with the silver words “Convention Hall” inscribed into it marked its entranced and he entered. In the shop was a sitting area with a single man-sized fireplace. He stepped into the fireplace and grabbed a handful of Floo powder. Then he called "Circe's Hall!" and disappeared with a burst of green flames.

When he emerged, it was in a building nearly brimming with wizards, witches, and all their effects. A cacophony of excitable voices and human traffic filtered through the main chamber of the lobby, traveling the long and wide tile floor and echoed against the curved enchanted, dome ceiling above his head. The auditorium door wouldn’t open for another hour, so he ventured toward the indoor pub that was partitioned off in an antechamber. 

Within a half-hour, he claimed the corner of the pub near the veranda. It faced a cobble stone street and market that resembled Diagon Alley on a smaller scale. The atmosphere was much more subdued, and he took advantage of it. In his hands, he held an issue of the _Cosmic Press_ and he curiously examined Grindelwald’s profile: the shock of white hair and heterochronic eyes were his most outstanding features. He spanned the length of the front page and a small caption under the picture detailed his anarchy in the states. Having already read the story in the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that was folded on the table, he bypassed the blaring headline in favor of page five which listed the current competitors in the Dueling League. 

Wang Shu, a Chinese wizard, was leading the current dueling competition in Prague by seventeen points; Leon Colten, an American, followed at a close sixteen; and Reginald Borealis and Theodosia Hawks were locked into third place with a tie at fourteen points. He took out his Font pen and marked those names, along with others that came after them to make up a list of top ten. Just then, a shrill bell broke through the tranquil ambiance of the veranda, signaling the start of the convention. He folded his paper and put them away.

As people began rushing through the doors, he followed at a sedate pace; having already taken the liberty of reserving a seat at a table for himself near the auditorium’s stage. That was a privilege afforded to benefactors of a certain caliber; he only needed to bequeath the donation box 200 galleons. He followed the burgeoning crowd to the entryway and flashed the attendants a wizarding access card he been given. They waved him through to the grumbling of others. 

The inside of the Circe’s Hall convention auditorium was nearly the size of a football field. Already several hundred people were milling around or conducting demonstrations. At one end of the hall was space dedicated to booths and presentation panels. The place was organized anarchy of enchantment. He saw several brewing stations, a booth for spell crafting, dancing quills. There was a woman with several dozen differing and exotic wand wood trees and even an occupied arena for dueling. He stuck to the open walkways and followed the signs leading to the actual Potioneer’s conference which was at the other end of the hall in an antechamber away from the chaos. 

The London Convention at Circe's wasn't as stunningly elite or purely academic as the Global Potioneer’s Guild Conference held every few years but it was still noteworthy. Though not the sole domestic magical convention, it was easily the most popular and attracted an acceptably large crowd. They ranged from potioneers to herbologists, alchemists, healers, spell crafters, wand wood farmers, wizarding press, hobbyists, benefactors, and even the occasional politician. In an event that seemed to attract all kinds of England’s wizarding population, he thought it the perfect place to be, if for nothing else than to inspiration. 

He joined the presentation and spent the next hour and a half listening to potioneers from Britain and neighboring countries talk of potion’s advancements and give demonstrations. His table was located near the back of the antechamber and he ended up sharing it with five others. A potions master, a writer, two healers, and strangely, an aurologist. 

“You’re a what?” asked Hector Winikus, the healer trainee. He looked so young with his wide eyes, short brown curls, and freckled face that Marek had nearly mistaken him for a Hogwart’s student. 

“An aurologist,” said Quintia, rolling the letters in her mouth. She smiled brightly. 

“I read people’s auras.”

Someone snorted. 

“Read auras. How do you…reconcile reading auras with potion making?” asked Winikus. The potions master to his right, a beautiful woman with a severe countenance replied shortly.

“You don’t,” she said. Quintia shrugged demurely.

“You can. A wizard or witch’s aura can affect their magical performance just as well as their environment or the objects they touch, this is true even for potion-making. An angry brewer isn’t going to create the same potion as a happy one,” she said to Winikus.

Rosella scowled and her face twisted in ridicule.

“I’ve heard of that just…never applied it to potions,” said William Bennet, the writer. Quintia shrugged with a smile. Her eyes flickered to Marek curiously. 

“What about you? What are you here for?” she asked. He answered honestly.

“Nothing as overly ambitious as finding the cure to lycanthropy. Mostly, I was curious and looking for inspiration. I’m experimenting,” he said.

“With what?”

“Preventative health care through physical augmentation,” he said. Borage, the older healer who sat next to Winikus leaned forward, intrigued.

“Why that and how so? There are many preventative measures you can take without altering oneself.” she said. He went on a limb and asked.

“Do you know about cellular regeneration?”

She frowned. “I can’t say I’ve heard that term, cellu-lar? 

“What is it?” asked the trainee and from directly behind Marek came the most textbook answer on a muggle subject that he had ever heard out of a wizard’s mouth.

“Of or relating to living cells, which are the body’s basic building blocks. Thus, cellular regeneration is the body’s ability to repair itself,” said a deep, resonant voice. It was a like silken purr so distinct and familiar that he immediately swung around to see the person it belonged to and he wasn’t alone. The gentleman in front of him was not quite Professor Snape but he was a close reflection of him.

“Potions Master Prince!” Raywood exclaimed. That was the most animated Marek had seen her this whole hour. Prince nodded to them in greeting before his dark eyes found Marek’s. 

“I’m afraid you’ll find magical healing is not quite as investigative as muggle sciences. Many of our kind are simply content enough with strengthening potions and skeleton-grow without examining precisely what either is achieving at the molecular level.” he said. From the corner of his eye, Marek saw the way Healer Borage rolled her eyes.

“You might have better luck talking to an alchemist.” said Prince. He was so taken aback by the man’s introduction, he had to backtrack.

“I don’t personally know any unless you happen to have Nicolas Flamel’s address,” he replied.

Borage interjected. 

"We have healing charms. Near instantaneous healing. We can regrowth limbs, can cure nearly every known ailment, we have brought people back from their deathbeds.” She said. Her eyes never left Prince, who glanced at her.

“Certainly, it is enough for those who are content with their limitations. However, there are…brighter minds who know that we have barely begun,” he purred. Marek watched them in fascination. 

“Humph,” Borage sniffed.

"I presume you’re the latter group?" he asked. Prince didn’t answer him but extended his hand. 

"Ignatius Prince,” said Snape’s lookalike. Marek met him halfway. 

"Marek Canmore," he replied. 

Prince nodded once. _Not even a twitch_ , Marek observed. _Huh_.

* * *

On his way out of Circe’s Hall, the crowd gave way and he stepped onto the cobbled street, just out of the path of traveling wizards and witches. A gust of wind sifted through his disarrayed hair. He smoothed the hair away from his face, noting to himself to take let Richard take some scissors to it. As he began his trek to the apparition point, he caught a flying white speck from the corner of his eye. Glancing to the sky, he saw as hundreds of flying origamis flitted to the people in the streets; they were met with collective surprise, delight, or displeasure. One woman got a _literal_ eye-full of paper birds and a man tripped into a stall as he jumped to grab one.

Bemused, he snatched the first paper bird that came his way. It was no bigger than his palm and his eyes were drawn to the characters written on the paper. Interest piqued, he unfolded it and as he suspected it was a flyer. A slip of paper no longer than the length of his hand, the wrinkled sheet read:

_"The Witch Fortuna and the Bold Knight"_

_A Romantic Play of Star-Crossed Soulmates_

_Starring_

_Bramble LittleTree and Starling Silverwatch_

_At the_

_Watsworth Theatre of Dramatic Arts_

_Showtimes on_

_Thursday Nights 6 pm-8 pm_

He stuffed it into his pocket and left.

* * *

_May 6, 1939_

_CONT. TRIAL No.3_

_Procedure: Created incision on the test subject midsection 2 inches right of the previous incision. I applied magic directly onto the wound with the intent to restore the skin to its original unbroken state by accelerating mitosis._

_Result:_

\- _Rapid closure of the wound_

\- _Wound sealed and almost no ridges on the epidermis_

\- _There is still some heat_

_Conclusion: Partial success._

_Addtnl Notes: less heat likely the result of focusing on rapid palliative healing. Intent is key. Need more tests._

* * *

_May 13, 1939_

_Trial No.8_

_Result:_

\- _Wound sealed and no ridges; light scarring_

\- _There is still some heat_

_Conclusion: Original objective was achieved but unremarkable compared to what is already possible. As Prince said, healing the mundane or non-magical is a picnic compared to afflictions caused by magic, which is what makes treating curses an arduous task for healers. Perhaps there is an aspect to curses that make the cells resistant to division. Maybe the castor's intent? A possibility that malevolent intent turns the body against itself. Therein, cell division itself becomes a wound._

_Addtnl Notes: Unable to conduct further testing with the possum. Subject is under observation and may have developed cancerous cells; found lesions and irregular growth under the skin at the joint connecting the hip and hind leg. Possible tumor. Subject is weak and lethargic._

* * *

Sometimes, he ached for his previous life. If not for the ease of technology, and the speed and variation of modern times, then for quality entertainment. For lack of options in the muggle world, he decided to experience wizarding theatre. He wrangled Marius into going along with him with the promise of a bonus wage and the rest of the day off. 

They watched _"The Witch Fortuna and the Bold Knight.”_

* * *

He nearly missed it; the small object is half hidden by the table leg. It glinted in the dimmed room illuminated by daylight from the windows and from the corner of his eye where he was crouched, he noticed its golden tint. A _galleon he'd dropped_ , he thought. But when he picked it up and held it closer, he realized he was mistaken. It was slightly bigger than a quarter and looked to be made of gold. It resembled a galleon and felt like one too, but it certainly was no galleon. At least, not British made. The coin depicted one of many iconic and recognizable figures in Egyptian art: that of a being with the neck and torso of a man but the head of a bird. He turned the coin around and found words he recognized as Latin:

_“Deûm maximam uictoriae”_

He didn’t own such a coin and neither did Tom, thought Marek. Even if he did, how had it ended up here in the basement? He was fastidious with his things and he’d never be so careless. Tom has also been at Hogwarts all this time. Several days before, Marek had cleaned this area after he finished brewing potions; he cast _scourgifys_ and charmed the broom to sweep. He didn't remember this coin being there.

Curiously, as he passed his thumb over the coin, the etching morphed, and to his utter surprise, the previous image was replaced with that of an alchemy circle. He checked the back to find a different inscription. 

_“Immortalia maximo studio.”_

For several moments, he was immobile as suspicion took hold of his thoughts. Then, abruptly, he turned away from the cutting table and marched up the stairs. At the door of the basement, he pulled out his wand and cast a revealing charm.

_“Specialis Revelio.”_

Glowing orange words began to appear in front of him, disclosing enchantments on the door. One to conceal, one to keep the household away, one to…He blinked. Then, he cast the spell once more to the same results. His trepidation deepened as his mind raced. Before Christmas and before he turned the basement into his playground, he cast _three_ spells on the door:

 _Disillusionment, Repello Muggletum,_ and _Sigillum Locus._

All spells meant to conceal and keep people away. In the beginning, he checked them frequently; once a week, then once every two weeks, then once a month or two. He stopped monitoring them when he felt confident that they would remain indefinitely. That was in March.

The last spell was meant to seal the room from intruders, and it was missing. Did it…run out of juice, reach the end of its shelf-life…or was it taken down?

His fist tightly enclosed around the smooth coin and nervous energy coalesced under his skin. Hurriedly, he left the basement and marched outside, all the while dismissing and waving away the maids’ concerns who were perturbed by his frantic stride and disheveled appearance. He circled the perimeter of the manor to a spot shielded from prying eyes unless otherwise investigated, and checked the state of the wards. Still active.

Could Marius— _no_. 

He dashed that thought at once. Marius was a squib and a wand would be useless in his hands. He was also under oath from the magical contract. It also certainly couldn’t be Tom either.

 _So someone else_.

Someone else, a wizard or witch, entered _his_ home without tripping the wards. They went into _his_ basement and the only way they could’ve known where the basement was is if they’ve been watching him. He circled back around the manor and reentered the house, startling the maids again. He stalked off toward the stairs, thunderous stride echoing in the hall. He was so intent on his action that he didn’t hear the footsteps racing after him. 

“Master Willaby, Master Willaby!” spoked a soft voice. It broke through his fog and he turned to face the maid that chased him. What was her name again, Sarah?

“Sarah,” he said in a clipped voice. Her eyes flickered to his chest, where the buttons were undone and the skin was bare, and she flushed. She spoke at once.

“Pardon me sir, but a man stopped by—"

“At this time, without an invitation?” he interrupted absentmindedly. 

“Yes, master. He came with a message from the master of his house. Mr. Riddle is committed to meeting with you. He says he's in town and..." 

Her speech halted and her eyes flickered to the ground way from the intensity of his gaze. He gestured impatiently for her to continue.

"You said Mr. Riddle," he prompted. She shook her head like a wobbler.

"Uh yes. He'd like to arrange a meeting with you at your soonest convenience. His messenger is still waiting in the foyer," she said. He wanted to tell her to dismiss him. This was hardly the time for him to be worrying about guests. He needed to check the solar, his bedroom…Tom’s. He sighed and inclined his head sharply.

"Alright. Let the man know I'll be available this Friday at noon," he said, dismissing her. She left. 

For a long moment, he stood there in the hall fingering the golden coin. Hearing about Riddle had jarred him out of his fog of paranoia, and he breathed deeply to calm his nerves. Maybe it did belong to Tom, maybe...maybe Marek got it all wrong and Tom dropped it and he missed that it was there all along! 

It was plausible, but...could he believe it? 

No.

_No, he couldn’t._

Someone had invaded his home, deliberately took down his spells, and went to his basement looking for...what? His journal? It was the only thing down there he considered noteworthy. There were also his potions ingredients, alchemy notes….

He paused. _Alchemy notes_.

Notes, he’d written about necromancy and bringing back the dead. His back straightened and he gazed unseeingly across the hall.

There was only one culprit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me on discord:


	14. Pro Revelatio

_"Et tu, Brute?" – William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar_

She nodded to Sally and Ada and left the confines of the manor's pantry heading off to the master’s office. Meredith marched up the winding staircase and stalked through halls. It was her turn to see Master Arthur. Another strange occurrence in as many days, she thought. He wanted to speak to her personally about her wages and plans for the coming months. Lately that’s all the staff could talk about: Master Arthur increasing their wages, telling them to save spare shillings and pounds and to be prepared in any case. Those were talks usually left to the butler but he spoke of them all the same. He spoke of all manners of things, things he’d never spoken to them about before and she worried for the future. That he appeared to reciprocate everyone's fears about England's problems with its neighbors, made the recent events all more real and the future look bleak. Mother's mercy, another war in her lifetime, she prayed not. The whole world was surely going mad.

These days, no one is more cause for kitchen gossip than Master Arthur. The handsome, well-mannered gentleman had taken to disappearing at odd times, and normally she paid it no mind—it was none of her business what matters the master of the house got into, she was just a wizened old woman—but even Richard had been restless and distant from her than usual. _Not that he'd been any different these last few years_ , she thought. She worried in a way she hadn’t worried in a long while. She worried about Emery, who left for conscription and her brother’s sons.

The last time Richard acted oddly to this extent was when Master Willaby had been on his deathbed from illness. _He was damn nearly maudlin, just as she had been._ They had a hand in seeing Master Arthur grow from a toddling babe to the man he was now. It had been devastating to wonder if that life would be snuffed out before he even married and had children.

To their surprise, he lived though he seemed forever changed. No one else understood that he had changed besides those who have been employed with the family for so long. The Masters and Mistress Willaby did, though she thought they didn’t care, so concerned with themselves they were. _Bless her_ , she shouldn’t judge people. She made her sentiments known to Richard and he had only grasped her hand and told her that any man who had a brush with death would turn out different. They had to or they’d have learned nothing.

She hadn’t understood a word he meant but she mourned. She mourned the young man who was no longer quick to laugh, or careless as young men often were. 

The handsome little lad, Tom, seemed to change that. Smart as a whip that one, and she could tell Master Arthur adored him. But the master had become a different creature. A shade too shrewd, bearing chilly, stature nearly looming, and then there was something disquieting about the way his eyes dispassionately examined them. _Like he was looking over produce at the market,_ she thought. She always felt uneasy in his presence though she hid it well; she was too old a woman to be afraid of young men. 

Scolding herself, she paused right at the door when she reached his office. She quickly smoothed down her dress before rapping on the door. His low voice invited her in. Uneasily, she entered the office and came to stand in front of Master Arthur, who leaned against the brown wooden desk. She noted, there was a curious dark stick held loosely in his hand.

“Meredith,” he said. She met his glassy, indifferent eyes as he lifted the stick and her world faded away. 

It felt like several moments had passed—old and new memories flashed to the forefront of her mind before being brushed aside like a hand turning the page of an old paper; one or two memories lingered for longer than the others and she distantly wondered why she was thinking of them at this time; Richard passed into her thoughts, then Frank and Frank’s wife, Emma, and then confusion took hold of her, and her memories sped by with a blur—before her world was put to rights once more. There was a sharp ache in her head, and she stumbled. She felt hands steady her.

“Oh my, g-goodness,” she gasped in apology. “Forgive Master Arthur, I'm afraid I don't feel well.”

“That’s alright. I don't want to trouble you if you're under the weather. Perhaps we should continue this some other time,” he suggested, gently ushering her toward the door. Flustered, Meredith followed along, massaging her temple as she went.

“Maybe some tea will make you feel better,” he said. She nodded faintly. She hadn't supped earlier, and tea sounded good. _Very good in fact._ She needed to go to the kitchens.

“Y-yes, you’re right. I’ll have some tea. Pardon me, Master Arthur,” she said.

“There’s nothing to pardon Meredith. You’ve helped me…a great deal.”

“I have?” she asked confusedly, glancing at him.

“Oh yes, very much so. Go on now,” he murmured. She trekked away.

“Go have some tea," came another command, and _God_ could not have compelled her to refuse.

* * *

The enemy was hiding amongst his household. He surmised they wormed their way in sometime before the wards were put up. It would have been the ideal opportunity. The wards would have automatically counted them as part of the household and given them access because he would have acknowledged any staff member, muggle, or otherwise or as being part of the household. _And wasn't that sobering to realize_. They were hiding like a cuckoo's baby in his nest, and he had been feeding and housing them for seven or more months. They might have even been around long before his rebirth and he couldn't even phantom why. 

The ghost had only shared a warning given by a supposed ally that a "summoner" was searching for him. But it appeared that they had already found him.

He could no longer rest easy in his bed. The danger weighed heavily on his mind eclipsed only by thoughts of how to turn things around in his favor. There was one thing he decided was that was paramount, securing another house or a flat. No longer was it feasible for him to remain at his current location nor to frequent Charles and Lizbeth's country manor. It had probably been breached as well.

It seemed to him that they were content to wait, to merely observe for now and that was fine with him. He wasn't going to do anything to make them change that or to endanger himself prematurely by thoughtless action. He'd searched the basement, the solar, his and Tom's rooms, and rechecked the wards for evidence of tampering and found them; items moved, spells removed and recast, fingerprints marking dusty surfaces in places under disillusionment charms. He left them all alone, except for the golden dial, that he kept. It felt too valuable to let go. 

The inscriptions on the dial translated to _"Immortality, the greatest pursuit"_ and on the other side " _Godhood, the greatest victory."_

It sounded grand and arrogant. Fitting, perhaps, for the fanatical cult group he’s sure the owner of the galleon-sized dial belonged to. He kept the coin dial his person and resolved to let the enemy think that they still had him unawares. Marek was going to shore up his defenses, plan an offense, and then rip them out.

He halted all his experiments and when he interviewed the household, he started with the members on the lowest rung, isolating them one by one. The rationale was that his mole would disguise themselves as one of the lower caste members because attempting to replace a member with higher standing, like a certain butler that often shadowed him, would have been too time-consuming and risky for them. Taking Richard's place would have required them to study his persona, learn his behavior, and maybe keep him around for polyjuice if necessary. So, the camp followers of the house were the perfect candidates for a faster and unobtrusive infiltration.

_That was assuming that their enterprise didn’t hinge on them getting too close to him._

If it did, that meant even Richard…

He snorted. Which would explain some things, wouldn't it? A supposedly Christian-raised man, Richard embraced his and Tom’s powers and called them “God-given blessings.” He even went so far as to offer to be a lookout and for what purpose? Marek had dismissed the man’s acceptance as a product of his longevity and loyalty to his family. That may have been a gross error in judgment, but he hadn’t had a reason to question Richard’s actions until now.

Baring these thoughts in mind, Marek continued his hunt.

He authored some excuse to get his staff into his office, going under the pretense of discussing their pay, and using that time to put his underutilized legilimency skills to the test. In each meeting, he built his modified shield around them. The shield's function, in the manner he used it, became less about protection and more about containment; it was better thought of as an encapsulation field. No way out unless he removed it, no way for the prisoner to fire spells without said spells redirecting at them, and he could mold it around the form of the object or person it contained to freeze their movements. Oh, he was very impressed with himself. Nothing like taking an existing idea and expanding it to suit your needs. He reminded himself to add a magic nullifying component to it in the future if such a thing was even possible.

Encapsulation field in place, he picked through the minds of his oblivious prisoners—a slightly time-consuming task—but one he performed diligently and with care so as not to injure them. Absently, he congratulated Mr. Freud on his accurate assessment of the individual mind. If the man had an inkling into how correct his theories were, Marek wagered he would sell his soul to the devil to see it for himself.

In the lowest caste of his house, he searched their minds for things out of the ordinary and found nothing untoward or suspicious. Then, he moved onto the servants with middling status, conducted the same search, and no red flags were there either which put him ill at ease. Some people he hadn’t gotten to either because they were at their homes or out of town.

Then he got to Meredith, a long-time artifact of the Willaby household. When he cast _Legilimens_ and delved into the first layer of her mind, he followed the train of her thoughts and feelings.

She was afraid of him, he noted with faint amusement. She thought his eyes were indifferent and cold. 

He didn’t dwell in her consciousness for long and sought out her memories. He couldn’t just call them forth to examine at his leisure. No, that would be like searching for an errant prize in a ball pit. Meredith’s memories were contained in the subconscious layer of her mind and what he needed to do was to push certain impressions and emotions at her. When he did that, the memories associated with those impressions and emotions would move into her conscious mind because she would be thinking of them, which would take care of most of the work for him. Then, all he would need to do is interpret the memory. 

Meredith had no defenses to resist so he implanted feelings of anxiety and discontent in her mind. The most recent thoughts that troubled her spilled forth. He saw a memory of her tearfully hugging her son, Emery, and watching as a truck took him away to military training. Then, a memory of her brother’s persistently coughing during a visit to his home, one of her comforting Sally, and another memory of her frowning at Richard’s back as he left, and Frank, his footman, leading a blonde woman away from the manor’s gates.

He latched onto another such memory involving the same woman and at first glanced, it looked unimportant; Meredith was greeting her in the foyer. He got a better look at her then, taking in her straw-colored hair turning grey, the age lines that marred her once smooth complexion though she couldn’t have been older than fifty, and her modest dress. He thought he recognized a silver of distress on her face and decided to find out why. 

_“… it's my pleasure Mrs. Thiemann, he’s spoken of you before,” said Meredith, greeting her happily. They shook hands and Mrs. Thiemann returned her smile politely though it looked strained. Meredith briefly glanced over her shoulder._

_“Um, what can I do for you? Frank isn’t here, he took off for Dartford yesterday,” Meredith said. Anxiety and surprise flickered over Mrs. Thiemann’s face._

_“Dartford? Did he say why?” she asked._

_“He said he was going to see family.”_

_“He doesn’t family in Dartford,” said Frank’s wife, frowning. Meredith looked taken aback for a moment as an awkward silence passed between them_

_“Well…” Meredith started, discomforted. The other woman pursed her lips, her age lines deepening and becoming harsh on her face._

_“It’s unfortunate that I missed him then. I came down to see him because he hasn’t come home lately. Usually, he visits us for at least a week every month. He was supposed to join us last week, but he never showed, and I called several times and sent a letter…I got no response and I was worried,” she blathered on. Meredith nodded along._

_“So, thought I’d come down here to check on him, but you’re sure he went to Dartford?” she asked again._

_“That’s what he said,” said Meredith._

_“And is this the first time that he went to Dartford?” asked Mrs. Thiemann. Meredith looked like a deer caught in headlights as she avoided the woman’s eyes._

_“Please,” the other woman appealed to her. Deeply uncomfortable, Meredith sighed and shook her head no. Frank’s wife gathered herself and straightened up further. She thanked Meredith and stalked away, anger echoing in her harsh, quick steps. Meredith hoped she hadn’t just caused unnecessary trouble in Frank’s marriage—though it was his own fault—what reason did he have to lie about where he was going?! She couldn’t to lie to the woman! That’s where Frank said he was going, and he went there every few weeks for longer than a week each time!_

Marek pulled out of the memory and searched for more memories of Mrs. Thiemann and Frank. Finding none that stood out, he left Meredith’s head and ushered her out of the room. Either Frank was having an affair in Dartford, or he was indulging in some other vice he didn’t want his wife or friends to know about. Whatever he was doing, it was suspicious enough to warrant looking into.

* * *

A pause came in the middle of his hunt for his mole when Margaret reminded him that Mr. Riddle would be arriving later that afternoon. In all honesty, Marek had forgotten about him. He’d been consumed with finding his rat. He awaited Thomas Riddle Senior’s arrival with some anticipation. As of now, he hadn’t decided on what to do with the man. Should he see how their meeting played out or should he just obliviate and send him away from their lives?

By the time Riddle arrived, he was still ruminating on his options. Richard decided for him when he escorted the man into the parlor. Politely, he clasped hands with Riddle Senior and exchanged due pleasantries. He gestured for him to sit in one of the armchairs while he claimed another seat across from his guest. In the time it took Richard to prepare the tea and scones, they sized each other up in silence.

Riddle senior was a classically handsome man, appeared to be somewhere in his thirties, and was the spitting image of his son. Or rather it was the reverse. Tom was a reflection of his father, down to the hair that curled in the middle of his forehead and the haughtiness he gave off. In several years, when the boy put on height and the softness of his adolescence bled away, he would be Senior's mirror, setting hearts aflutter. Marek had a feeling that would only make him resent his father more. 

Once Richard was finished, he dismissed him and wandlessly cast a silencing spell just to be sure. Sensing his guest’s reluctance to begin, Marek simply pulled a picture out of his pocket and handed it to him. The man took it with deft, manicured fingers and immediately blanched at the photo of Tom. His lips thinned and his face became pinched. Marek decided to give him a moment to come to terms with this discovery…he can’t imagine the man was all too happy. 

“Is the boy...strange?” was the first question that came out of Riddle's mouth after several failed starts.

“…Strange?” Marek repeated. 

“Yes,” Riddle hissed. His jaw clenched. “Like his mother.”

“...I wouldn’t know what his mother was like,” said Marek. Senior sucked in a harsh breath between his teeth and his eyes flitted around to avoid Marek’s. Silence lingered in the air between them, then,

"No, I don't suppose a man like you would," Riddle muttered. "I'll speak frankly then Mr. Willaby. If the boy is anything like his mother, I'll have nothing to do with him. That might sound cruel to you, but my family doesn't need the disruption to their lives. If you feel you must be compensated for keeping him, I will gladly do so."

Marek narrowed his eyes, speaking tersely.

"I've been caring for him since he was nine. If I thought that would be a hardship, I wouldn't have adopted him."

Riddle winced and inclined his head. Marek returned the nod in acceptance of the unsaid apology. 

"You said you'll have nothing to do with him if he was strange. What did you mean by that?" he asked. This might be a bad lead into a conversation but call him curious. He really wanted to know what went down between Tom's parents beyond Dumbledore's account. Riddle shot him a false smile.

"...I shan't waste your time with stories," he said.

Marek shook his head.

"I don’t think it would be a waste. I’m very curious," he said to which the other man frowned. A moment later, something like shock and not-quite-hope entered his eyes. Still, he was reluctant to speak, so Marek encouraged him with some magical suggestion. Then Tom's father began to speak, hesitantly at first.

“I'm not mad," he began. Marek tried to reassure him, but Riddle interrupted.

"That woman who I think is his mother could do things...Merope was her name. Some village tramp who lived with her raving father and brother. She bewitched me, stripped me of my wits, and when I finally regained them, I found myself a married man and away from home. I don’t understand what she did, even now, nearly twelve years later. I have very little memory of my time with her...even though I’m told I spent nearly half a year married to her. How is that possible? How can I have been married to her yet my memory of it is all a mercury haze?" He asked in a fervor. Uncertainty passed over his face when he finished. 

“It sounds like she drugged you,” Marek drawled.

“But it’s more than that. Surely, you noticed something—something different with the boy,” Riddle insisted. A pause stretched between them, as Marek contemplated what to say.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked instead, meeting Riddle’s eyes. The man visibly swallowed and wetted his lips. His looked distressed and uncharitably, Marek thought Merope’s ravishment of his person must have whittled down that collected coolness and surety he’d come to associate with Tom. For all that Tom inherited from his father, this show of weakness was not it. 

“Heavens no! God, I don’t want to know...but I can’t possibly go on not knowing what...witchcraft was performed on my person! I was content to go on with my life, and then the rumors started! They said there was a boy, a bastard, who looked like me. Ce-Cecilia noticed him first…Do you understand my conundrum, Mr. Willaby? I’m not a madman even if my words sound just so. What gentleman would tell lies of himself and have his person be ridiculed by his peers?” said Riddle, gesturing to himself with both hands.

“I was given to think that you willingly married her and ran off together,” Marek supplied.

“Witchcraft, I tell you!” Riddle burst out. “What that woman did to me it couldn’t have been anything else.” 

“And if her son, _your son_ , had the same gift?”

“ _Gift?!_...so he is like her,” Riddle said breathlessly, with eyes blown wide and incredulous. In the next second, his lips curved slightly, flashed his teeth. It looked like a mockery of Tom’s rare smiles.

“You call it a gift Mr. Willaby? An abomination more like it! Has her spawn caused you to take leave of your good sense?” he asked. Marek quickly interjected.

“I don’t know what your former wife has done to you—”

“Don’t call her that,” said Riddle, visibly disgusted.

“—But I can assure you that Tom is nothing like her—”

“I’m hard-pressed to believe it!”

“Whatever you believe is your choice,” Marek in a clipped tone. “You came here with the expectation of receiving the truth, well, I have given it to you. What more do you want Mr. Riddle? What, pray tell, will you do with this knowledge? Run around London, proclaiming that the anti-Christ and spawn of Satan walks amongst us? There are many of those already I’m afraid.”

The man stared at him galled and bewildered. 

“There is nothing that you can do, simply, because you do not have the power.”

He flinched.

“I don’t say that to frighten you or to threaten you. You’ve spent all these years being mocked for running away with the village tramp, spurred on by lust or madness. I know the ordeal haunted you with questions that had no answers and you've had no way to defend yourself against the humiliation. You think this is your chance for these answers, so you came here. I know you came here more for those reasons than for Tom,” said Marek. He paused as he considered the grim man before him.

“Frankly Mr. Riddle, your presence here...is disruptive and unwanted. I know Tom well enough to know that he’d rather never see you. He would blame you for abandoning his mother and leaving him to be raised in an orphanage—”

“I could hardly be blamed for leaving that witch!” Riddle exclaimed, nearly leaving his seat in a fit.

“Keep your voice down!” Marek snapped, glaring. “I’m not saying you’re at fault for leaving. I’m saying that he will blame you because he won’t understand.”

“No one wanted to believe me, not my mother and father or Cecilia. No one,” he muttered quietly. Marek sighed and went for the heart of the matter.

“Do you want to meet Tom?” he asked. Riddle glanced at him miserably. 

"What is it that he can do?” Riddle asked in a whisper. Marek considered him for a moment before replying, 

“Magic."

There was a stuttered pause after that word, heavy and uncertain. Then the other man slowly shook his head. 

“No, no I don’t want to meet him,” Riddle whispered. He dragged a hand over his face and stood. When he met Marek’s gaze once more, he was much more composed and his eyes clearer. 

“Begging your pardon Mr. Willaby. Thank you for the tea but I will take my leave now.”

Marek inclined his head as Tom's father left the room. He glanced at the two cups of tea on the table in front of him and the uneaten scones and tried to imagine what it'd be like to fall under the guile of a spell, violated and humiliated, and then years later discovering a child. It did not amuse him, and he felt his calm evaporate like the steam that no longer rose above the teacups. Hadn't he too been caught unawares and violated? Unconsciously, he sneered, leaving the room and two brimful teacups.

* * *

Marius told himself he’d never been beholden to anyone. Magic or not, he was a Black and he had his pride. But he had grudgingly become beholden to Canmore. After five months of being taught by and working with the man, he liked to think he understood his mannerisms and thoughts somewhat better. Certainly, better than that jealous muggle. 

Canmore was planning something. 

It was sudden, not the gradualness he expected when the man began to pull away from him. At some point, he knew Canmore would give up some of the reigns of his job to let Marius take over, but he’d thrust the whole thing onto him and disappeared for several days. He could only phantom what the man was doing. However, the glint and coldness in his eyes when Marius had last seen him told him it likely wasn’t anything good, probably not good for _someone_. A reckoning that he decided that was not his concern.

He couldn’t have spared the time to press the man for an explanation even if he wanted to. He was mentally exhausted. Why muggles felt the need to drown themselves in paperwork, he’ll never know, or perhaps it was just Canmore who felt he needed to torment himself and by extension, Marius. On top of his work for Willaby Estates, he’d been overseeing their travel plans and arranging accommodations for their brief stay in the Khūzestān Province in Iran. 

He had really hoped they had a wizarding community so Canmore could just floo them there and back but that was not to be. The man was bringing along his old butler, to Marius' confusion, and he had suggested that they leave him behind. But Canmore shut down that idea immediately. Marius didn’t question it. 

Flying was out of the question, and so by train, boat, and car, they would travel.

Two weeks they would spend in Iran with Mallard’s Oil Company and before that, several days in Ankara, Turkey. He resolved to ask Canmore why an alchemist temple was so vital to their trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry, that’s not the end of Tom Riddle Sr!
> 
> Join me on discord: https://discord.com/invite/E7pTzDh


	15. Pro Perfidia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much appreciation to _Vulthurmir_ who betaed this chapter. Enjoy!

_“The dose makes the poison...” ― Paracelsus_

Some things you just had to do without magic. Marek could have chosen to do things the magical way, but in lieu of instigating a fight with an enemy he didn’t think he was prepared to handle—because honestly, he had no dueling experience beyond the practice of launching spells at dummies hanging from the ceiling—he chose caution. That was why he was currently slouching forward in a chair at Belgravia’s police department. He walked in a few minutes ago and persuaded the lead Sergeant to give him access to their files, with a little dose of magic.

He looked through dozens of compiled reports on missing persons in the last few years; white, male British citizens between the ages of fifty and sixty-five was the criteria he asked for. It was an abysmal sum of files since he was certain more persons were missing for the timeline he was looking at than what the reports in front of him suggested. But he’d take what was given. He went through the pile mindlessly, not really expecting to find anything concerning his adulterous footman, Frank Thiemann. 

_Collin Bryce Hill_

_Ralph Hughes_

_Francis “Willy” Kagner_

_John King_

_Davie Lana_

And so on it went until the next file made him pause. In the center of the paper, was a black and white photo with a face he recognized and under it, a name he knew. Slowly, he picked up the file and read through it.

_Reported missing by brother on March 8, 1936. Please contact Howard Lancaster._

_Age 58, white Englishman, brown eyes, short greying hair, clean-shaven. Employed in Belgravia as a butler…_

Oh. 

He sighed irritably, shoulders falling and sinking back into his chair. _How very disappointing,_ he thought with a pang of anger. He read through the paper several times, memorizing the reported details before placing the file on top of the discarded pile. He could rage, but it would do him no good, so he shoved his feelings aside in favor of pragmatism—it wasn’t like he hadn’t already suspected the man—and he decided that speaking to Howard Lancaster was his next course of action. He didn’t bother with propriety this time and simply walked out of the station, stalking past the sergeant who tried to speak with him.

The report said Howard Lancaster lived in Gravesend, along the Thames, so that's where he headed. He drove to the Lancaster residence and arrived at the 13th hour when the sun was up high and the neighborhood idle. It was a peaceful, quiet, little part of town. He thought he spotted a few people peering through their curtains at him before hiding. No doubt his fancy car and dress attracted their attention. 

Marek stalked to the door of Lancaster's home and rapt on the door. He heard shuffling before an old man with light greying hair, pasty skin, and wearing an oatmeal-colored sweater and black trousers answered the door. He stared into the familiar face and noted the difference in eye color. 

“Oh, hello, what can I do for ya?”

“You can start by telling me if your brother Richard is still around?” he asked provocatively. Howard’s lips curved down and Marek raised his wand.

“I beg your par—”

“ _Legilimens,_ ” he said. He’s pulled into Howard's mind and he hungrily perused the memories of Richard his words have called up. Capitalizing on the man's negative feelings, he separated the memories of his brother that troubled him, namely the most important one, Richard's disappearance. 

Howard actively kept in contact with Richard until several years ago, when the latter failed to show up to their monthly meetings. When he didn't hear from his brother for some weeks, knowing he wasn't one to disappear without warning, he drove down to London and visited the Willaby townhouse. This was during the time Marek was bedridden in the year of 1936. For some reason, Howard didn't find Richard at the manor and reported his brother missing to the police...

The memory ended there, and Marek withdrew from Howard's mind, at the same moment that a woman appeared over the man's shoulder. He smiled reflexively at her, bowed his head, and turned away before she could utter a word. Then he left the Lancasters. All thoughts of Frank fled from his mind. Whatever Frank was doing in Dartford was meaningless in the face of this new information and regardless, Marek could now trapeze through his mind without fear of retaliation to confirm what he already knew.

* * *

It was times like this when Dakin longed for Malta[1]. When he slumped in the cushioned chair and stared at the peeling wallpaper of the dark flat, his thoughts would drift to home. He missed being in the cradle of Malta's magical town; he missed watching the sunrise over the Mediterranean where he could see the Merpeople swim in waters; he missed walking the streets day and night where his kind was free to dwell without fear of discovery. He even longed for those abominable spices imported from the east; they permeated the markets in his hometown and irritated his every sense.

He snorted and inhaled a long, slow drag of his cigarette. A bad habit he picked up among Brit voids[2]. Most of them couldn’t go an hour without lighting a smoke, but they were tasteful, very soothing for his nerves. Perhaps the only thing these voids were good for.

Much like their mystic [3]counterparts, they tended to be overindulgent and dramatic. The people, further west, were much the same—bickering and dragging others into wars they had no business starting. The voids were even worse. If he hadn’t spent the last few years among them, Dakin would have dismissed them as harmless, a mistake many of his kind were want to make. Dakin from before would have defended them to Roan, these remorseless, purposeless people. He knew better now and it only took Roan dying for him to learn.

That didn’t stop treacherous thoughts from nesting in his mind. _Not all of them were savage and some of them were worth saving,_ he would think, and he would resent himself. He smoked listlessly as one such worthy person came to mind.

Meredith _._ She was like an echo of his mother. Kindhearted, gentle, and always praying. But his mother was long passed. His mother was his mother and Meredith was…what she was. 

Cursed. 

He turned his thoughts to his little brother, Darius. Darius had turned seven in March and his schooling would have already started at this time. Dakin dearly missed him, missed him with a longing that threatened to swallow him whole. He missed…Amala, who he hoped waited for him. 

Sighing heavily, he took another drag of his smoke, as he lamented all the things he was missing. He was tired, so tired it was bone-deep. He was ready to go home, even if his business here was not over. But the Order did not care if he was homesick and he had to do his part in the _Magnum Opus_. The Venerable Master had asked it of him, and so he would continue to watch the false human. 

_It was all for Darius_ , he reminded himself. Then he could go home.

The turn of a bolt wrenched him from his depression, and he shot up from the chair, pulling out his wand with a flurry. Facing the front door, Dakin tightened his grip and lifted the wand higher. The door creaked open and he caught the blue of Sonnaugh's hair in the dim living room, followed by his bulking form, and the waspish smirk that gained permanence on his face. Dakin thought he might have been born that way; smiling perversely as his mother screamed, bringing him into the world. _He was supposed to use the code_ , he thought darkly.

The metal pin sitting on Sonnaugh’s left breast glinted as the light filtering through the gaps of the flat's grey curtains hit it; a six-pointed star. It was red, the only color allowed on a Red Dawn mercenary's uniform. Dakin lowered his wand arm and turned away from the man, reclaiming his seat. 

"Not even a hello?" came the American’s drawl. “Thought you’d be happier to see me. Means your babysitting is almost over." 

"You're late," he replied, retrieving the smoke he dropped by the chair.

"Yeah, says who?" 

Dakin didn't dignify him with a response and the mercenary stalked through the room, disappearing through a door that led to the kitchen. He listened as Sonnaugh rummaged around in the other room and pushed down the familiar resentment that rose in his chest. This was one mistake he was certain the Venerable Master had made; seeking the help of mercenaries. They couldn’t be trusted, and their agenda was always finding a bigger payout. Dakin kept his peace because he knew that his master outbid Grindelwald, although it rankled that he had a guard anyway.

The order might preach about protecting their members, but he wasn't a blind fool. He knew Sonnaugh was sent to watch him, to make certain that he played his part. It was a tactic meant to keep him in his place, and that burned no matter the other logic behind it. Sonnaugh could help him with his task, pass information, and kill the subject of their scrutiny if ordered.

 _But he could also kill Dakin if that too_ _became necessary._

He frowned. A hand gripped the back of his neck, startling him into leaping from his chair. He cursed gracelessly as the mercenary chuckled.

"Every single time, just when are you going to learn Graytwig?"

"I told you not to do that!"

The blue-haired American picked up Dakin’s dropped cigarette and plopped it in his mouth. He slipped off his black robes and threw it over the sofa. Then, he collapsed on it, crossing his legs and tucking his right arm under his head. The corner of his inner jacket fell open, revealing the swathe of black chainmail wrapped around his torso. Armor.

"You need to loosen up,” quipped Sonnaugh at Dakin's glare.

“I don’t have time to indulge you—” he started and the American snorted.

“Oh? You’re that eager to run home and playhouse with that pretty—”

Dakin sneered and continued undeterred.

“Marius Black. I’m certain now that he’s working under some arrangement that only the subject has made him privy to. He's probably under an oath. I haven't found out his agenda yet but it looks like he's a legitimate employee.”

Sonnaugh smiled callously.

“He might not be a threat, but he still has ties with his sister,” Sonnaugh said. “House Black has strong political ties and lots of friends. It might be smarter to just get rid of him now.”

“That would have the opposite effect, I would think. He might live amongst voids but he’s still a pureblood. You would only draw their attention to us.”

“He’s just a squib,” the mercenary countered. “I doubt they’d cry about it. Hell, I might be doing them a favor.”

“They have resources to find out who did it and you would risk Grindelwald’s attention on us. They preach the same bias he does, and he needs their support,” he said, and the other man shrugged.

“So, I’ll make it look like an accident,” Sonnaugh intoned. Dakin swallowed dryly when he met the man’s gleaming eyes in the darkness. A moment passed and he glanced away.

“They’re leaving for Iran in a week,” said Dakin. “They’ll be gone for three weeks.”

The other man smirked and nodded.

“Perfect,” he remarked. “…what about the kid?”

Dakin frowned.

“What about him?” he asked. Sonnaugh blinked slowly, peering at him through hood eyes as though he found something interesting.

“You know eventually we’ll have to leave and take his daddy with us. That means tying up loose ends—”

“He’s not a threat,” he snapped tersely, scowling at the mercenary. He clenched his jaw tightly when the other man huffed in derision.

“Not now he isn’t. But in the future…,” Sonnaugh trailed off.

 _No_.

“No. He’s just a child and we’re not touching him,” he insisted firmly.

Sonnaugh eyed him contemptuously and Dakin happily returned the scorn, the heat of anger burning in his chest. A tense silence later, the mercenary’s lips spread into a mocking smile.

“Fine, have it your way,” he said. “But let me give you a word of advice, Graytwig. That soft heart of yours is going to do you in. Children grow. But they don’t need to grow to know how to kill.”

 _Is that what happened to you?_ he thought of saying _._

“Just do your part,” he retorted, hiding his discomfort.

He wasn’t going to be party to child murder. Tom wasn’t that much older than Darius and unlike the false man who cared for him, he was innocent. He was still young, and he could be taught. When they finally left Britain, Darius hoped to take the boy with him. The Master would see how brilliant he was and that he could be enlightened.

For just a moment he was hopeful, but that hope was quickly replaced with a niggling of doubt.

He had a feeling that things would not be as easy as he wished. Arthur Willaby or Marek Canmore, as the false human liked to call himself, was…something _more_. He knew that if the Master could see him then he would realize that this one had exceeded his expectations. 

Canmore wasn’t like the others.

They all went mad in the end, despairing their rebirths and killing themselves or forcing the master to kill them, but Canmore had proved he was different. Dakin wondered if it was because he was the first to adopt a child.

He was smart and independent. He discovered his own magic and is self-taught. He could form and maintain relationships. He had a pragmatism and a hunger for knowledge that the others lacked; that was evident in the experiments and alchemy he performed.

_Did caring for Tom grant him some measure of humanity?_

Worryingly, he didn't think that Canmore would take their plans for him lying down, which made it imperative for the Master to take him soon while he still remained ignorant. 

He just hoped when the storm came, they could weather it.

When Dakin finally left Sonnaugh and the flat and drifted back to the Willaby townhouse, it is late in the night. The moon was dark when the 11th hour approached and his disguise was firmly intact as he waved to Learie who let him in. Technically, he didn’t have to return until sunrise the following morning, but he preferred to be here before the staff woke. The house lights were turned off, and the manor was shrouded in darkness. Everyone was likely already asleep.

He marched to the servant quarters near the dining hall and pantry. As the highest-ranking servant in the household, he had his own room. When he arrived, he went through the motions of getting ready for bed, stripping down to his underwear and slipping into a cotton nightshirt. He turned off the lights, placed his wand under his pillow, and slipped under the bed covers. 

He laid on his back, facing the ceiling and allowing his eyes to fall shut with a sigh. There nothing in the darkness except his breathing, which in the span of a heartbeat began to turn harsh, because suddenly it felt hard to breathe. 

His eyes snapped open, wide and terrified, and he opened his mouth to allow harsh breaths. There was a pressure on his chest, an invisible weight holding him down. Above him, there was nothing. He gasps helplessly until the pressure lessened like it had been taken off. 

When he attempted to sit up, his body is paralyzed. He can’t even turn his head toward the approaching footsteps coming from his left. A slow patter of steps, steady and ominous against the silence and his stiff, panicked breathing. The footsteps halted and from his peripheral vision, he saw a familiar silhouette.

He watched in transfixed horror as his hand was lifted—it doesn’t register that the pressure on his arm lessened to allow this—and something sharp pricked the skin at his inner elbow. 

He tried to speak but nothing escaped his lips. It was hard to form words when one couldn’t properly breath. The haunting encounter persisted for what could have been several minutes but felt like an eternity in his fear. After a while, his eyelids drooped. He struggled to keep them open as a shadowy figure blocked the ceiling from his sight.

“ _Legilimens_ ,” was the last thing he heard as he lost consciousness.

[1] Independent country and island right off the coast of Italy in the Mediterranean Sea.

[2] Dakin’s term for muggles or non-magicals

[3] Dakin’s term for magical-beings; synonymous with witch, wizard, or wizarding-kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me on discord: https://discord.com/invite/E7pTzDh


	16. Pro Minae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought this story died, or maybe you thought covid got me? Well, it didn't. Glad to be back! Enjoy.  
> Much appreciation to _Vulthurmir_ who betaed this chapter.

_"I am a Count, Not a Saint." ― Alexandre Dumas,_ [ _The Count of Monte Cristo_ ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/391568)

He watched the rise and fall of false-Richard's chest with critical eyes. It had been all too easy to restrain the man with his shield; to push the force of it on all sides of him and pin him down long enough for Marek himself to inject the sedative. False-Richard succumbed to it quickly, leaving Marek in his wake. He had never tried to use the shield in that manner before. Certainly, he thought of all the applications in which it could be used offensively but seeing it in practice…the way it immobilized false-Richard made him acutely aware of how easy it would be to just…smother the man. False-Richard had struggled to breathe when he had held him in place. Marek could have crushed his ribs and punctured his lungs if he wanted to. In his agonizing last moments, Marek would have loomed like death itself.

_How easy it would be to dispose of this insect in his garden._

He shivered, his mouth becoming dry. Wetting his lips, Marek stepped back from the motionless figure before him. 

But he couldn’t, not yet.

He had cast legilimency but not fast enough as false-Richard’s eyes closed in sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, wand clasped in his right hand, and leaned over him. He pried open both eyelids to ascertain that the man was truly asleep. Hardly necessary, as even anesthesia produced in this age still made for an effective sedative. He was pleased that it worked just as well on wizards as it did on muggles but there was no guarantee that it would stay in the man’s system for as long as it normally did for a muggle and so, he kept a bottle of the draught of living death in his pocket as well.

He went to tie false-Richard’s hands and legs together but faltered mid-way. He had a general idea of what he wanted to happen though he had yet to settle firmly on any one action—he just didn't have enough information to exploit any apparent weaknesses. One certain thing was that he needed false-Richard to assume that his cover was still largely intact. Marek couldn’t do that if the man woke up the next day with rope burns on his wrists and ankles.

_And speaking of rope burns_...he healed the irritated skin caused by the needle on the man's inner elbow.

False-Richard was so well integrated into the heart of the manor and Marek’s life that any change could tip him off and Marek had already given himself and Tom away as wizards with his carelessness. The interloper knew they were learning magic and that they were slowly but surely closing the knowledge gap between him and them. He was on his guard. Marek knew that the man expected odd things to happen with two wizards and himself in the house, but any irregularities close to his domain would serve to make him act. Something he couldn't allow to happen.

He smiled sardonically, thanking his magic and whatever deity that he was being underestimated. False-Richard hadn’t bothered to set any wards on his door beyond _alohomora_ and a _notice-me-not_ charm, all of which were easily disabled. Evidently, he didn't think Marek was a threat to a fully trained wizard, a fair assessment, and served as evidence that false-Richard must be his “handler” for some reason. He must know what Marek should and shouldn't be capable of. 

He didn’t let his mind stray in that direction for long, this was neither the time nor place. 

He spent another minute listening to false-Richard’s even breathing before he began searching the room. Under the pillow below the man's head, he found a wand. Eleven inches and a sleek dark brown with protruding nubs at the end. He held onto it for now.

Sometime later in his search, he discovered some potions, a spare wand that he left in its place, a photo, along with several nondescript wizarding cloaks hanging in the back of the wardrobe away from view. There was also a trunk tucked in one corner under the bed. To his dismay but lack of surprise, when he cast the spelling spell revealing charm, he discovered wards cast on the trunk. He sighed before putting it back. He’d been hoping to glean something from the trunk for further insight into the man’s agenda, but it looked like he would have to settle for doing things the old-fashioned way; an aggressive inquiry with a generous helping of drugs and magic.

When it neared two o’clock in the morning, Marek reluctantly placed the wand back under false-Richard's head, then locked and cast _silencio_ on the door. He turned off the lights and poured a Confusion Draught down false-Richard’s throat. He hadn’t given him much of the anesthesia to begin with, only enough to put him to sleep for an hour or so. Awakening from it would be disorientating all on its own, but the Confusion Draught would exasperate his condition. When false-Richard stirred, Marek cloaked his presence under the cover of his shield and cast a silencing spell on his feet. Then he waited in the shadows like a phantom with his wand ready.

False-Richard's face twisted in a grimace as he woke, and Marek watched him as he struggled to sit up. He looked around the room in confusion. After several failed attempts to stand, hampered by Marek discreetly exerting pressure on his limbs—to make them heavy—he collapsed tiredly on his side. He stared blearily across the room and Marek chose that moment to approach. He crouched near the bed, locking eyes with false-Richard's unfocused ones and plunging into his mind with a whispered _legilimens_ that barely moved the air. 

Marek felt more than saw the drowsiness and confusion that clouded his victim's mind, edged with an instinctive wariness that he failed to grasp the cause for. He was too lethargic to heed it. Marek played on his wariness, pushing thoughts of the person he saw in the photo he found earlier. 

A sense of longing swept over him, and he was suddenly viewing a memory. 

_He was watching a little boy play in the water and the water was playing with him too. Ropes of water weaved a dance of wide circles around him and he giggled, slapping his hands through them only for the dancing water to reform. He looked over at Marek—at false-Richard, a wide grin stretching across a sweet, tan little face._

_"Dakin! Dakin! Come play with me!" he said. Mare—false Rich—Dakin. He was Dakin...and Dakin was hard-pressed to resist those imploring brown eyes. A smile tugged his lips and he went after him. The boy waded further out into the river._

_"Wait for me Darius!" he shouted, hurrying after him._

_The next few moments were spent blissfully splashing in the river as the sun bore down on them with warmth. The festivity of the picnic further uphill added to the picture of harmony and serenity._

_Marek, watching the idyllic peace, began to dismiss the memory, when a figure in red moved in Dakin's peripheral. Dakin turned toward it and Marek was taken aback at the rush of anger that filled him._

_He swung Darius onto his hip, who noticed his pause and stared curiously at the stranger. She was striking; fully clothed in blood-red robes, her skin was black as night and carried undertones of blue. She was hairless and had tribal markings on her face that bespoke her Dinka heritage. Dakin grit his teeth at the sight of her and stalked away from the stranger toward the gathering uphill. He placed Darius down, smiling gently to hide his sudden anxiety, and urged him to go._

_"Who is that?" Darius asked._

_"No one you need to concern yourself with. Now go Darius, I'll be right behind you, I promise," he said softly. Darius nodded tentatively, his eyes flickering toward the woman behind them. He took off with a jaunt, glancing back at Dakin every few steps. Dakin smiled encouragingly._

_"I take it your efforts to cure him were in vain?” came an accented, sibilant voice._ _Dakin turned away from Darius to face the speaker before letting the smile drop._

_"Why are you here?" He hissed at the woman._

_She did not look at him, instead, her eyes followed Darius and he moved to block him from her sight. Her yellow eyes narrowed at him._

_"You have not come to the swearing rites," she said coolly. He stiffened._

_“I told you I could not make it,” he replied irritably. “Parousia knows that I cannot always be there. Darius—”_

_“Do not use your brother as an excuse,” she interrupted. “You think you are alone in responsibilities? Obscurial little Darius might be, but he can afford to live without your presence for one night. Did you not give him to the Kurdish priests to care for?”_

_Dakin gritted his teeth._

_“You pledged to serve the order, yet lately I sense your loyalty is waning.”_

_Dakin barked out a derisive laugh at her._

_“Ha! I had wondered if you’d left your tongue in the desert sands, serpent. Your arrogance is astounding. The voids have a saying amongst their kind, American or British I think… ‘People who live in glass houses should not throw stones.’”_

_Marek caught the minute flare of her nose, and it seemed that Dakin had as well because a thrum of satisfaction echoed in the memory._

_“You of all people don’t get to question my loyalty,” Dakin said coldly. “Twice you have betrayed yourself...and us.”_

_Marek didn’t miss the flash of anger that crossed her face. Tense silence permeated the air between the two of them before it shattered like glass at her next words._

_“Attempt to come to the next rite Graytwig, Master Parousia grows impatient,” she said in a clipped tone. Marek felt Dakin’s wariness grow._

_“Parousia—”_

He was abruptly returned to his own head before he could say ‘ _Parousia’_. He froze when he found Dakin’s eyes staring at him, fearing that he’d released his hold on his shield while in the man’s mind and been discovered. Nothing happened for several harrowing seconds before Dakin shakily breathed deeply and glanced away. Several beats later, Marek allowed himself to relax as he observed the other man. 

It wasn’t until an hour later that Dakin succumbed to sleep once more. Marek, crouched low on the other side of the room, decided he had tried his luck far enough. Another intrusion tonight would risk alerting Dakin. He had been pushed out of the memory when the other man began occluding to suppress it, an effort to clear his mind of the potion-induced confusion and lethargy.

He didn’t lament the abrupt conclusion of his efforts. He had a name now.

_Dakin Graytwig._

And Dakin had a weakness, a little boy named Darius, who was an obscurial being taken care of by Kurdish priests. Most likely in Turkey. So great was his love for his weakness, that Dakin was willing to defy a dangerous looking, bald woman and a master in some shadowy order they were all a part of. Now, Marek was certain, Dakin wasn’t working alone. 

Under his shield, he silently left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts. Join me on discord: https://discord.com/invite/E7pTzDh


	17. Pro Effectio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Because I’m an absent-minded dikut, I keep forgetting to give a shoutout to my beta, Vulthurmir, who has been diligently looking over my work for the last couple of chapters and making me look less like an amateur. Corrected now. Also, thanks to Robolo42 who took care of this chapter. Much appreciation to both and ya’ll enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: Someone brought to my attention that some of the language and description of gypsy or Roma people was stereotypical and offensive. For that I apologize, I don't mean to stereotype or offend any group of people. I was going off of Peaky Blinders as a reference because it's a show I love for its inclusion of different people and portrayal of life in the pre-ww2 era. Nevertheless, I've endeavored to correct my mistake and I've made some changes. I will continue to do so, hopefully, without sacrificing Finnigan's background.

_"I should no longer define myself as the son of a father who couldn’t or hasn’t or wouldn’t or wasn’t.” ― Cameron Conaway_

"I think I saw you at a horse race before. You were with this tall, posh-looking fella dressed fancy...I tried to rob him," said his fellow Slytherin.

“Tall, posh-looking fella dressed fancy” described nearly all of Britain’s landed gentry, their butlers, and anyone with enough money to pass off as either along with their associates, was Tom’s first thought to that statement. Then, he caught on to what Finnigan had said and arched a brow.

"You tried to rob…Ma-my father?" He asked incredulously. 

"Well, it was actually more like the Blinders was trying to rob him and the whole box he was in. They sent me and some others because we were smoller. No one looks twice at dirty kids running underfoot, hiding under tables.”

Then, Finn smiled.

“Unless, your Tom Riddle of course,” he said. “I would've gotten him if ya hadn't shown up when ya did. While we were busy doing that, the rest of the gang tried to make off with some of the horses."

That sparked an old memory of sorts. Marek had taken him to plenty of horse races, but none as memorable as the one with the attempted horse theft.

"That was you?" He asked incredulously. Finn laughed. 

"Yeah, last time I help those sorry bastards! They ran off and bloody left us there. Mum threw a fit cause by the time I made it home, it wasn't till two days later with the coppers."

Tom tried not to cringe at Finn’s atrocious manner of speaking. Thank goodness for Marek’s timely intervention.

"I doubt you would have succeeded."

"I would've, really. Your da's bunch can be awfully distracted,” said Finn.

Tom didn't see anything memorable in the boy in front of him. But the gang, the Blinders...he's heard of them before, back when he used to walk the streets whenever he snuck out the orphanage. He would weave in and out of the city blocks and the places he went, no one questioned why a child was wandering around by himself.

He hadn't thought much of those places, only that they were a different sight from his sheltered life at Wool's. The men in illegal betting houses, the scantily clad women hooting at them from the darkened doorways, and the children covered in ash and sneaking off with whiskey in their jackets; Finn had been one of them. Tom had followed them once, several bottles strapped to his person under a worn coat, all the way to a shipyard where they delivered the bottles to a craggy, old man with a small boat meant to take them across the channel. He hadn’t gotten anything for all his trouble. Needless to say, he hadn’t had much self-preservation then. Now, here he was meeting Finnigan again because the other boy remembered that Tom had been too "pretty and clean” for hustling in the streets. Awfully small world.

"Were you born in London?" he asked.

"Birmingham."

"I see," he said. Finn scoffed.

"What do you see about Birmingham?"

"I was an orphan until a few years ago," he admitted. Somehow, it was easier to admit this to Finn, perhaps because he already suspected. "I can’t imagine Birmingham is all that different from London." 

Finn peered at him curiously. 

"Hm, true enough. Lucky you, getting adopted. What's it like on the other side?” he said.

"Wonderful. Are you gypsy?" He asked instead.

"I’m Roma not that anyone understands the difference. They think we all tell fortunes. Just because I’m Roma or a gypsy doesn’t mean I tell fortunes, even if I have seer blood,” said Finn, side-eyeing him. "Is that a problem?"

He rolled his eyes at the other boy and held back a word about his idiocy.

"We're in a hidden magic castle with moving stairs and talking portraits and that’s what you think I care about? he asked. A wry smile made its way onto Finn's lips, but Tom could see the irritation in his eyes.

"You'd be surprised," came the murmured reply.

No he wouldn’t. He wasn’t blind; discrimination existed everywhere, even here amongst a secret, race of marginalized magical people. Tom believed that they’re marginalized because why else did they have to be in hiding if not in fear for their lives and the theft of their magic? Marek had told him to pay attention to the language and the prejudice of other people, so Tom knew there was no respect for muggles and their achievements, less for seers, magical creatures, or squibs. He suppressed a shiver. To be born a squib—the thought horrified him—but that was the reality of people like Marius Black.

Although, Tom thought Finnigan’s own problems stemmed less from his claim of seer blood and more from his poor execution in making alliances in their house. He looked exactly as he appeared, a muggle ruffian trapezing around in Slytherin colors and that was too much for their self-important housemates. Tom doubted the boy would have had success even if he acted otherwise. Out of things to contribute to the conversation, he settled for something simple.

"Not really.”

"Ey...why don't you ask your da to marry me mum Tom. I promise she's a sweet woman and we could be as tight as brothers. No more robbing, no more eating scraps…" said Finn, woefully. Tom rolled his eyes at the pathetic attempt to garner sympathy. 

“A true pity,” he drawled. “Why do I suspect that you would be rum-running my poor father's whiskey across the channel.”

Finn chortled, his laugh lines crinkling and his grin, sharp and wide. 

"Because I probably would you arse." he said without any real heat. Tom smirked. 

Of the few muggleborns and halfbloods in Slytherin, Finnigan was the only one he was properly acquainted with. The others didn’t talk to him much beyond classes, possibly because he tended to be accompanied by their better counterparts. The only reason he was acquainted with Finn was because they had history, however few and far between. They didn’t generally speak about it near their housemates. 

Tom was contemplating asking if he had an actual seer in the family when Aedan entered the library and made a beeline straight for them. On seeing Aedan, Finn stood up.

“Well, I think that's my cue to go. I don’t know how you do it, cozying up with those twats, but don’t you go and turn into a twat as well," he said. 

Tom shrugged and Finn favored him with a lopsided grin before disappearing. A beat later, Aedan dropped down onto the seat next to him with a heavy sigh. Tom glanced at him briefly before returning to his transfiguration paper.

"I swear, Professor Brennan thinks his class is the only class at Hogwarts. Who assigns students papers every week?! Every week!"

"Those papers are only a foot long." he pointed out. Aedan groaned.

“Only a foot long he says, easy for you to say. You actually enjoy doing them…its defense class, we should be throwing spells," he grumbled. On that point, Tom had to agree. Brennan was too fond of theory for a class that should be more doing, and less reading.

"Since when were you and Bishel friends?" asked Aedan, in the typical fashion that he did when he wanted to distract himself from doing his work.

"We're not friends, we just talk."

"You talk an awful lot for 'not friends'."

"Why are you so concern who I talk to?"

"...Hm...do you think I could borrow your paper for transfiguration?" the other boy asked hopefully. 

"No."

Aedan shrugged at his brusque reply.

"I figured that was your answer," he said. He turned to Eileen who had noisily joined them, dropping her bag at the foot of the table before collapsing with a huff.

“Prince, let me borrow your paper for—?"

"No," she clipped without sparing him a glance. She turned to Tom, lips pursed and frowning. 

"How do you do it?" She asked. Tom's barely kept from smirking. 

"Do what?" he asked, evasively.

She favored him with an irritated look as Aedan glanced between them curiously. Tom thought about teasing her some more but answered her in the end. This was for his benefit as much as her's after all, in the name of fashioning smart and capable allies or whatever.

"You'll have an easier time if you think of yourself as a water well; rather than the person taking water from said well with a bucket,” he said, deciding to channel Marek.

"What?" 

"When you try to perform lumos wandlessly, what is your thought process?" 

"I think of producing a bright, white ball of light, same as I would if I was doing it with a wand," said Eileen.

"What of the process that leads to up to it? At what point do you go from having no ball of light to having a ball of light. When do you channel your magic and focus it to achieve the result?

Aedan, who had been listening attentively, hummed in realization. 

"You're saying you have to account for how the magic manifests and transforms," he said. Tom was suitably impressed by his deduction. At his inquiring look, Aedan shrugged. 

"My father can do some wandless magic. He said it's as difficult as it is because you have to account for additional properties that you don't usually think about when you're using your wand. With a wand and a spell, you don't have to think about the physics of things."

"Physics like shape, size, mass, luminosity, and temperature," Tom added. “When you're casting, your wand focuses and channels your magic; an incantation carries the intent of what you want to achieve. At most, the only work you're actually doing is conveying your need for the end result.”

She nodded.

"When you remove your wand out of the equation, now you have to take up the task channeling your magic yourself. This is where wizards likely run into problems with wandless magic because there's a disconnect between how they see themselves in relation to magic. They think of it in terms of 'magic and I', rather than magic as just another aspect of their being that they have complete control over. Much of it is due to the importance placed on one’s wand, so consequently, people tend to attribute magic performed as a product of the wand first before themselves. 

“I think I understand what you mean. I'm trying to do wandless magic as if I was still using my wand, rather than seeing myself as being its source...well it's one thing to know that, it's another to put it into practice. I need a demonstration if you're up for it?"

"Maybe another time." he said. He wrote his last sentence and then closed his books. Eileen groaned lowly.

“Really Tom? Ugh, it’s like pulling teeth with you." 

Tom shouldered his bag.

"Yes well, I'm not here to please you. As interesting as this conversation has been, transfiguration will be starting soon." 

She sighed and picked up her bag.

“We’ll speak later,” she murmured. They waited for Aedan to gather his belongings and then made their way to the transfiguration classroom.

If Eileen wanted more from him then she would have to work for it; Tom wasn’t about to give away advantageous knowledge for free. He was leading as the most advanced student in his year, outpacing his year mates in both theory and practical work, something Eileen always attempted to match. He commended her for the effort and was glad that at least one of his newly dubbed “friends” was applying themselves. Even Aedan was putting in effort, despite his lack of enthusiasm. He had taken an inordinate amount of interest in what Tom was doing after that demonstration of wandless magic in Kings Cross station, and Tom suspected it was due more to the Avery matriarch’s encouragement to keep making 'nice' with him rather than actual interest.

Whatever their reasons, Aedan and Eileen were getting swept up in his academic voracity as consenting collateral. They’d seen his near mania upon his return to Hogwarts and decided to join him; he couldn’t have asked for better friends.

His return from winter break was sparked by an obsession to make Marek's proto-shield his own. He started with regularly producing a flimsy dome-like structure, and within two weeks of return, he improved it significantly. It was solid, opaque, and could bounce off spells. It was only a few weeks later with better focus that he could manipulate parts of it at will to form holes or close them.

Somehow, Hogwarts had eased his hunger with their curriculum only for Marek to reinvigorate it. When had he looked at all the chanting and flashy wand-waving and decided that that was all it meant to be a wizard? His curiosity was by no means sated, so why had he gotten comfortable with what he knew? There was so much to learn, more than he could process in one lifespan! It would take years to finish Hogwarts, and then what after?

He couldn’t really go temple hopping, ruin exploring, and experimenting if he was the Minister of Magic now could he? Now that he thought about it, being Minister of Magic was by no means the height of power and aptitude.

Professor Dumbledore, in his atrocious getup, was lauded as one of the most brilliant wizards in all of Britain, maybe the world and there were rumors that Grindelwald feared him. Tom didn’t see it, but the man gave good, logical explanations to transfiguration and he gave Tom assignments that challenged him, pushed him to think. In a way, he reminded Tom of Marek.

Tom watched as Dumbledore sidled up to students, answering their questions and pointing them in the right direction. Aedan cursed to his left and he turned in time to see Aedan's silver plate launch from the table and hit Mallory, a fellow Slytherin in the back.

“Oi! Watch it!” 

“Shit, sorry! This is harder than it looks,” Aedan cursed, frowning. Tom noticed his wand movement was wrong, he curved the “w” and tended to loop it rather than draw it with sharp, linear lines. Amused, Tom nudged him and performed the spell, transforming the plate in front of him into a tea up in a matter of moments. Transfiguration required a deft hand and a scientifically inclined mind, which were both Tom’s strengths. 

“You’re curving it too wide and looping, try making your movements narrower, and don’t let your wand down until the transformations complete, else your just making extra, unnecessary wand motions.” 

Aedan tried again with better success, although the handle of the cup was was malformed, and the rim curved outward. Tom left him to figure out the rest himself.

“Very good Tom, five points to Slytherin,” said Dumbledore, sidling up to him. He turned to Avery. “Marginally better, Mr. Avery. You’ll find that sharper, linear lines will get you better results.” 

Exactly, what Tom had thought. 

Dumbledore disappeared as quickly as he came. A little while later, class ended. As he gathered his bag, Professor Dumbledore called him out, stopping him in his tracks. He motioned for Eileen and Aedan to go without him. 

“Sir?”

“Tom, Headmaster Dippet requested that you stop by his office. It appears that your father is here to visit you. Would you like an escort?” 

“No, thank you sir, I know the way,” he said. Dumbledore nodded.

“The password is _Cloidna’s Moondew_ ,” he said, before dismissing him. Tom barely remembered to drop off his bag and books in the dungeons before heading to the headmaster’s office. It took him a few turns before he found the gargoyles entrance. He spoke the password and ascended the steps when the door opened.

Moments later, he found his guardian seated across from the headmaster; composed and hale, smiling as he conversed with the older wizard. They acknowledged him when he approached. Tom couldn’t spare look around the headmaster’s office. It’s really been six months since he last saw Marek at the train station. He hadn’t even noticed how the time flew by. Why hadn’t Marek told him he was coming?!

The Headmaster stood.

“Ahh, Mr. Riddle, welcome. I was just telling your guardian what a model student you are been. Top of your year!”

Tom smiled pleasantly.

“It's only by virtue of Hogwarts’ fine tutelage that I am, headmaster,” he said. Dippet beamed. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, my boy. I’m told by your professors that your very advanced for your age, and with a skill in wandless magic no less!” he exclaimed. “You must be very proud, Mr. Canmore.” 

Marek smiled; it was a small curl of the lips he made when something amused him. He was staring at Tom.

“I am,” he replied with a single nod. Dippet gestured to a short hall leading to another chamber in his office.

“I do have a visitor’s room that you may use—” 

“Actually headmaster,” said Marek, cutting in. “if it isn’t too much trouble, I was wondering if Tom could give me a little tour of the school. He’s been telling all these tales and well, I’ve never been to Hogwarts—”

“Ah, of course,” said Dippet. "That shouldn't be a problem, as long as Mr. Riddle is finished with his classes...” 

“Transfiguration was the last class for me today,” he filled in and the headmaster inclined his head.

“Very well, I will leave you to it then. Mr. Canmore, please keep in mind that the school’s wards do prevent anyone from apparating directly into or out of the premises.”

“Will do headmaster, thank you again,” said Marek. Tom was tiring of this exchange, so he moved closer to Marek and clasped his hand. Once they left the headmaster’s office and wandered further down the hall from the gargoyle, he fired a series of questions at Marek. 

“What are you doing here? I thought you had already left on your trip. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” he said. It was easy to wrap his arms around Marek when he’s drawn into a brief, warm embrace. 

“Why don’t you give me a tour of the grounds and I’ll fill you in?” said Marek.

“Just the grounds?”

“And maybe the courtyard too.” 

“There isn’t much to see there.”

Marek shook his head. 

“You can give me the grand tour of the school later. This isn’t a conversation I want your peers to overhear,” he said. Tom nodded and led him outside. They talked about his time at Hogwarts as they moved away from the courtyards. As they walked the grounds, Tom pointed out things he knew to Marek, and sometime later, they end up along the Black Lake. He spotted a few students glancing at them curiously and talking, but they were too far to hear. 

Suddenly, he was struck by the realization of just how much Marek was missing. This was the man’s first-time setting foot on Hogwarts, at a magical school; he had never been taught. Everything Marek learned, every spell, every wave of his hand to conjure, to dispel, to summon, they were things he taught himself. He’s taken by a sensation of pride and worry, caught between marveling at Marek’s magical aptitude and anxious about all the things he didn’t know.

No matter, how capable and skilled he was or appeared to be, Marek’s knowledge base was amateur and filled with holes. Compared to people like Dumbledore, even with his unconventional approach to magic and his conscientious learning habits, he could still only be considered a very advanced Hogwarts student, maybe fourth or fifth year. 

Tom was suddenly concerned about his dueling competence. Was it enough? Was it up to par? It couldn’t be. He doesn't have anyone to teach him or to practice with. How was he supposed to fight back?

Granted, Marek was competent, crafty, and decisive—Tom had struggled in conjuring his proto-shield enough to appreciate those qualities—but it couldn’t be enough against a master duelist or Heaven forbid, a dark wizard like Grindelwald? Tom frowned heavily enough that it prompted Marek to nudge him.

"Tom?" 

"I…I just realized what you were missing,” he began. “Everything you’ve learned, you taught yourself through trial and error. I was thinking it must be frustrating to not have anyone to show you the right way to do things or give you a second opinion.”

Marek put on a perturbed expression.

“It is somewhat bothersome,” he admitted. “Sometimes, books just don’t cut, especially when it comes to casting more complicated spells. I miss out on the nuances of hand movements and the correct inflection for a spell.”

Marek's lips curled around the corners.

“You’re worried about me,” he said, getting to the heart of the matter.

“Yes actually, I am,” said Tom, frowning. “How well can you duel? There are dark wizards like Grindelwald running around and no one appears to want to deal with him. Aren’t you worried? A few weeks ago, the prophet was talking about how the French Police were trying to capture some of Grindelwald’s followers in muggle Paris and, then a tower exploded, and some muggles were injured. What if you get caught up in something like that? You could end up as a target or collateral.”

Marek stared at him for a long moment, expression indecipherable.

“You’re right,” he said. “That is a concern, and fortunately, I have solutions in place on the off chance that I ever end up in a situation like that.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a standard, muggle wristwatch: white and gold dial with a black band. Tom’s eyes are drawn to the matching watch around his wrist.

“This is a portkey,” said Marek. He grabbed Tom’s left hand and began slipping the watch around his wrist.

“You only need to turn the crown clockwise twice and it’ll take you to Manchester, to a little village called Wigglesworth where the River Ribble comes to a fork. At which point, a quarter of the mile east of the river, you’ll find a stone path that leads to a cottage that I’ve set up as a safe house.”

Pensive, amber eyes bore into his own.

“I know how disadvantaged I am, Tom. There’s nothing I think about more than all the things that I don’t know, but since there’s not much I can do about it other than educate myself, I take steps to ensure my own safety and your own…so you see, I’m not completely disenfranchised. You don’t need to worry about me so much. Also, you’re forgetting one other thing.”

Marek brushed a hand over Tom’s hair.

“You did graciously promise to teach me, remember?” he said, bemused. “Anyway, I’m not here to talk about me.”

Marek maneuvered them toward a spot in the tree line where the intertwining roots were large and arched. They served as a place for them to sit.

“I know you’ve been curious about your parents,” Marek started. Tom thought he sounded somewhat hesitant and glanced at him in question. 

“I had the pleasure of meeting your father earlier this month,” he said. Tom’s eyes snapped to him. “He’s a muggle, looks like you, and he came knocking because he’d been hearing about a child with an uncanny resemblance to himself. He told me some things about your mother.”

Marek paused.

“Do you want to hear it?” he asked. 

An uncomfortable, churning feeling wound heavily in Tom’s gut and he felt like his ears were filled with cotton. He remained silent because he hadn't prepared for that revelation. He once dreamed that when he was older, he would search for his father, but now that dream seemed banal, childish, and didn't seem to matter so much anymore when there was already someone playing that role in his life. 

A hand fell on his shoulder.

“We don’t have to talk about them if you don’t want to. I can shut up now and we never have to pursue this line of conversation,” said Marek.

“No, no I have to know,” he replied quickly. Marek nodded and a moment later, Tom saw a slight distortion of the air and he knew that the proto-shield had been erected around them. What followed was a recount of how Thomas Riddle Senior had found himself in their London home and the entanglement with Merope Gaunt that led to Tom’s creation. Needless to say, by the end of the conversation, Tom is unimpressed and repulsed by his mother. As for his father…well he’s uncertain what he feels for his father. 

Months ago, he would have settled for hating him on basis alone but now he couldn’t garner enough emotion to feel anything other than distaste and slight bitterness about the circumstances of his birth. The truth was that his father was innocent and couldn’t be blamed for running away from his rapist and never looking back. Tom would have done worse in his place.

Marek said that his father was still afraid of magic and he likely wouldn’t be stopping for tea again any time soon. Which was just fine with Tom, because he didn’t want to see him either. He thought this despite the niggling curiosity in the back of his mind that told him otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Well, I hope you enjoyed it. I thought you guys deserved some Tom, catch up on how he’s doing. How did I do with that wandless magic explanation? Good enough for bs?
> 
> I did change one thing in chapter 4 - Pro Magus, where Marek is writing a letter to Dumbeldore. I removed Tom’s full name, only referencing him as Tom. I don’t want Dumbeldore and anyone else wondering why Tom’s dad goes by two names, just yet.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts and join me on discord: https://discord.com/invite/E7pTzDh 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don't own anything except the characters I make up.  
> *watch as crack my fingers and fabricate more lies*. Don't even know what to call this chapter. This chapter did not want to be written for some reason.  
> Unbetaed because I figure I've made you wait long enough.  
> Some people seem to forget that this is an SI, therefore an AU so consequently there's going to be canon divergence. O.o  
> I’m of the wisdom that if an SI’s actions are not changing canon events or challenging characters for importance and relevance then, *in Cardi B’s screeching voice*, WHAT WAS THE REASON BITCH?! That might be why I don't enjoy crack fics that much.

_“He who returns from a journey is not the same as he who left.” - Chinese proverb_

  
  
It was with a mix of trepidation and cautious excitement that Marek endured the journey on the Orient Express, a machine well-oiled and three sleeping cars full. He’d only been on the train service once before, more than seventy years in a future that was now infeasible. In that future, it had been a much-loved experience for tourists and vacationers, one of many luxury-based transcontinental transportation services. In this era, it was still a fledgling business and time would only see it grow in success with the additions of modern technology and booming tourism.  
  
He and Marius shared a double cabin connected by a common area where they could sit and conduct business together, as they did now. Marek was a bit distracted however as he watched the austere landscape outside of the windows pass by and take him away from the mundane work of reviewing land development and oil drilling plans.  
  
He had left much of the oil operation in Mallard’s capable and experienced hands. His only duty, when he and Marius arrived in the Basrah region of Iraq, would be to ensure that Mallard and the subsidy made good on fulfilling their contract with the government and that preparations were in place for future transport of barrels. When he arrived, he would take the chance to cast concealment charms and set up basic warding over the perimeter of the fields and production centers.  
  
He remembered from his history books that the Middle Eastern theatre of the war had never come to fruition; not to the crippling degree that the Allied forces had expected. Certainly, there had been a coup, he remembered that much. The prince of Republic Iraq had been usurped by a pro-Axis sympathizer, some man named Rashid, about a year or two into the war, and the prince had sought asylum on an RAF gunboat. If events transpired in the same way, the conjoined armies of the RAF, Iraqi forces, and Assyrian levies would eventually retake Iraq from Rashid. However, he wasn’t just going to wait around for a coup and then another to protect his interests. The thought of hiring a ward master was tempting but it was too early for this stage when he hadn’t even seen the fields yet so he merely kept it in mind.  
  
As he thought of the possible butterflies his presence would cause in the timeline of the war, he relaxed in the cushioned, brocade seat and let his eyes roam over the rolling green hills of Hungary. They were traveling around seventy miles-an-hour through rural land and had left the outer city limits of Budapest miles behind. The picturesque scene, the murmuring rattle of the train’s momentum, and smoky cabin air lulled him into a meditative state. When he felt tension bleed from his limbs, he let his eyes droop shut and reached out with his magic to touch the enclosing metal around him. His magic settled like a blanket around the cabin, enveloping and mapping every surface so that he could build a picture in his mind of the layout and surrounding objects. The task was made easier by the fact that he already knew the general placement of everything relative to his position.  
  
In his peripheral, he could "see" Marius sitting across from him, not as a heat source or a compact cloud of vibrating atoms. He appeared like a blotch to him—a heatless, shapeless mass at the edge of his senses.  
  
Beyond their cabin, he sensed smaller masses that were other passengers. Lounging, standing, moving. To this unpracticed way sensing on a metaphysical level, they were nearly intangible and hazy, as ignoble as the lifeless objects around them but the longer he focused, the clearer they became, and he could begin to count how many of them there were.  
  
He was seeing without seeing, something that could be equated to a Jedi's force sight, he thought amusedly.  
  
It required a great deal of focus and constant compression of the objects in his surroundings to map their position and shape. It was not unlike throwing a cloth over a table; one could no longer see the table, but the cloth would reveal its shape, size, and relative position.  
  
He’d been experimenting with the ability for the last week and a half after his tussle with Dakin. During his meditations, he used it in the dark to see through the walls and to locate things. His smile had been practically unholy when he discovered that moving bodies were far easier to detect, being able to sense the distortion they made through the field of magic as they intruded and retreated out of his range. A dead useful ability.  
  
Thus far, he had yet to distinguish Marius from any other person and his control was not as fine-tuned as he wanted, so much so that things and people still appeared hazy within his mind. Not dissimilar to how an image appeared on a heat sensor. Eventually, Marek reeled his magic back and returned to the present.  
  
He opened his eyes to the sight of rural land once more. Homes and farmland dotted the area and a fair distance from the train tracks, he spotted a little town as the Orient sped by. On the outskirts of the town, a few paces from a patch of woodland trees, was a troop of marching youth. Some of them pointed in the direction of the train as children often did when something caught their attention and one boy ran forward, in greyed out overalls and a cabbie hat sitting on his head. He extended his arm out above him in a salute, and despite the distance and the fast pace of the train, Marek recognized the Sieg Heil.  
  
He snorted humorlessly and moments later the children disappeared from his sight.  
  
Marius coughed just then, drawing his attention. The sharp tang of a Cubano cigar drifted through their lavish cabin. Ash from the cigar held in the young Black’s pale fingers fell onto the floor as he batted the air in front of him. Between them was a long and ornate table with a spot of tea set out on one end and a pile of papers on the other. Marius leaned over to shuffle the papers.  
  
"Our next stop is Bucharest, then Istanbul, and finally Ankara. Are you going to enlighten me as to why we’re stopping at some muggle monastery?” he asked.  
  
““The muggle part of it is mostly a front,” he answered. “Alchemist Brun, who will be our guide, says it’s located in a remote town called Little Galatia. There’s an alchemy guild there and a master alchemist I need to speak to.”  
  
He took several photographs that Marius handed him, fixing his attention on the Aghajari oil fields.  
  
"What of? Not planning on becoming a shamanist monk, are you?"  
  
Marek snorted.  
  
"Hn, was that a jest? And when did you become so nosy?" he asked.  
  
"If you think I’m nosy, it’s because you’re fond of giving unsatisfying answers," Marius snipped back. Then he, as Marek had discovered that he was fond of doing, continued to pry further.  
  
“Who is this alchemist and why are they important?”  
  
“Master Khaldune is the head alchemist at the guild; he’s who I need to speak to.”  
  
“There are plenty of alchemists in Britain,” Marius needlessly pointed out. “Why are you going leagues away?”  
  
“Brun recommended him for one; he’s her former master. Two, he’s a legitimate and practicing alchemist, as well as the head of a guild. What better source could I go to? And more importantly…there aren’t very many wizards in Britain suitably informed or willing to discuss the topic of rebirth or the creation of beings in greater detail.”  
  
“Huh, probably because it sounds like you've been asking them which brand necromancy they prefer, speaking to the dead or raising them. The former is misconstrued as borderline dark magic and the latter would get you time in Azkaban,” said Marius.  
  
Marek shrugged.  
  
“Ignatius Prince mentioned something like that. I just want to know if creating artificial life and giving them souls is possible since homunculi are a thing.”  
  
Marius regarded him critically.  
  
“As far as I know, it’s impossible. Homunculi might be considered artificial life, but their sentience is false. Their behaviors are mere mimicry and reflections of their creators.”  
  
Marek lifted a brow.  
  
“You seem well informed about the subject,” he stated to which Marius smiled wanly.  
  
"Let’s just say the Black library is extensive. Why are you pursuing this subject anyway? It's futile. In all of the books I’ve read while searching for a cure for my…lack of magic…there's no way to account for the absence of a soul,” he said.  
  
“And that’s all it comes down to…having a soul.”  
  
“It does.”  
  
Marek cocked his head as another thought occurred to him.  
  
“What of the say of the prisoners in Azkaban…where do you think their souls go when they’re given the kiss?” he asked, his thoughts turning to Sirius Black; Marius’ future grand-nephew. The man had nearly been kissed in the Forbidden Forest after Remus Lupin’s transformation in the fourth film. Marek remembered the man's paling face, wraithlike appearance, and the fragile little...thing that rose out of him and toward a dementor's mouth. It had been nothing like the conventionally imagined astral form that rose out of one's body upon death and ascended into the heavens.  
  
Marius shrugged, confusion twisting his handsome features.  
  
"...who knows."  
  
Marek wanted to ask how wizards even determined that what the dementors took was even a soul. Perhaps what they took were merely memories and emotions, rendering them vegetables. They were creatures who fed on emotions and emotions were tied to memories, so that could be the actual reality. Or perhaps the trauma of the kiss just deadened the condemned's will to live and made them unresponsive to stimuli—such fates were commonplace enough in the muggle world. But if they took souls, what happened to the souls in the dementors' bellies? Did they linger briefly and eventually cross the threshold to the other side or did they become reduced to energy to give the dementors power? Perhaps a way to sustain their ability to take more souls or...or to prolong their existence?  
  
After all, no one knew where dementors came from or how long they lived. They were neither living nor dead and did not belong to either plane of existence. Perhaps they acted as a sort of gateways to either side, he pondered. If they could touch upon the living, maybe they could touch upon the dead.  
  
A dementor could reach into the realm where all souls dwelled and pull one out, and perhaps that was how he had been brought back. That lady ghost that had appeared outside of the Reform Club so many months ago had told him that death followed him and the implications were worrying.  
  
The question remained of who would go to such lengths to transmigrate a soul into another person’s body and what they wanted out of him since it seemed they had succeeded.  
  
He thought this person had to be either very desperate or as maniacally determined as Voldemort to go to such lengths to cheat death. Even more bizarrely, he wondered if Tom might have met this person in the other timeline because the knowledge on how to create a receptacle body and to bond one's soul to it likely wasn't lying around for just anyone to use.  
  
Such a question could only be answered by an experienced alchemist who studied transmutation and the soul; that was where Khaldune would come in.  
  
There was a moment of pensive silence in the cabin. Marius, who appeared to have noticed Marek's sudden introspection had left him to it momentarily. Eventually, however, his curiosity got the better of him.  
  
"How do you know Ignatius Prince?” he asked out of the blue.  
  
Marek blinked.  
  
“I don’t really know him. We met by chance at Circe’s Hall for Potions and All Magics Convention. We talked about transhumanism and have continued speaking ever since. He seemed rather interested in experimental magic.”  
  
“…trans-what?”  
  
“A muggle-term,” he explained, although the concept had yet to be coined in this era. “It’s a concept advocating for the transformation of the human condition. It’s not dissimilar to how animagus transfiguration alters one nature, but transhumanism extends beyond physical transformation and its purpose is focused on advancement and efficiency.”  
  
And less intrinsically, he thought in the privacy of his mind, sought permanence and immortality through machinery.  
  
Marius pursed his lips.  
  
"How do muggles imagine that they can alter their nature?"  
  
"With technology of course. Some believe that eventually, they'll create machines smart enough to function in the place of missing limbs or replace whole organs. Or even transfer their memories into mechanical brains and bodies as a way to establish their permanence amongst the living," he elaborated. Marius' eyes widened and he looked gobsmacked.  
  
"They think they can accomplish this?" He asked incredulously.  
  
"It’s not a popular or even a well-known concept, but some see that as the eventuality or consequence of technological progress. A sort of next stage in a posthuman world."  
  
"...but immortality? I never thought muggles entertained the possibility. I can see why Prince would be intrigued...when I was still attending Hogwarts, he made waves by publishing a paper on chaos magic and the applications of muggle sciences with it. That didn’t endear him a lot of purebloods. I heard Septimus Prince had been furious. The Princes have always kept to their neutrality and with that move, Ignatius Prince made them look like mudblood sympathizers."  
  
Marek considered the insight.  
  
“I was surprised at his interest, but I didn’t get that impression from him. He seemed to approve of the sciences for what they were, useful knowledge, even if it came from muggles,” he said. Paused, and then added, “Prince also encouraged me to visit an alchemy guild. Although, he suggested the one in Cairo as the better alternative, citing their longevity and the emphasis they placed on gnosis.”  
  
“Ahh, I see now, and that’s why we’re going through Egypt on the return,” Marius realized.  
  
“Precisely,” he said with an incline of his head.  
  
Marius sighed dejectedly.  
  
“This is going to be a long trip,” he said.  
  
Marek rolled his eyes.  
  
“Don’t act like you’re not enjoying it,” he said, to which he received a smirk in return.  
  
Two days later, after a winding journey through Bucharest and Istanbul, the train entered the province of Ankara. Dusk was rapidly falling and everywhere he looked was steeped in history. Archeological ruins from the Roman era to the Ottoman’s crowned of the city’s historical center, a rocky hill that rose above the Ankara River and carried upon its slope, the remains of a castle ruin. Mosque roofs and tall spires adorned the tops of many buildings and he saw the age-old marks left behind by the Greeks, Romans, Galatians, Persians, and Turks. But even so, those marks were becoming overshadowed by modernization.  
  
Twilight was settling when they finally pulled into Ankara’s Railway Station. They stepped out of the building and into the busy traffic of Ulus Square, where Marek remembered the first Grand National Assembly of Turkey convened and the Statue of Victory was mounted as a show of Turkish Independence. He felt the cool glide of air against his skin and the vibrant ring of a windpipe instrument. The bright lights and gay atmosphere lent a quiet glamor upon first impressions.  
  
Ankara was modern but modest. Grand but nothing glamorous like the Art Nouveau style and municipal buildings of Bucharest or the awe-inspiring architectural wonders of Istanbul. Still, it had a charm about it that seemed timeless and woven into its simplicity; from the sights, to the smells, and to the colorful people who lived in it.  
  
He blinked a few times as water droplets landed upon his brow. One and then another and more as a light onset of rain began to fall. The sudden change in weather did not seem to deter the inhabitants from enjoying the nightlife and he continued to take in the sights as Dakin and a luggage boy packed their belongings into a car. Within moments, they had piled into the taxi service and were speeding toward Ankara Palas—it seemed everything was preceded by that word—their hotel for the next few days.  
  
In the city, there was gaiety.  
  
In the city, there was also the undeniable weight of an arrow, drawn and ready to be loose. It felt eerily similar to London these days.  
  
Before long they reached the Palas and settled into a shared suite. With only mere hours left in the night, he ate a quiet dinner and bid them good night.  
  
The next day found him waiting with Marius to meet Brun. They hadn’t had to wait long before she happened upon them when they exited the building. She half-smiled at him from under a navy bowler hat, her sandy peeking from underneath, and at first, she was unfamiliar to him in her muggle attire.  
  
"Mr. Canmore," she said in greeting.  
  
“Alchemist Brun,” he returned with a nod. He extended a hand as she sauntered forward but was nearly taken aback when she entered his space and kissed him on both cheeks.  
  
“I have told you before, call me Esmee. It’s good to finally see you again,” she said, her eyes lingering on him. He smiled politely; he had forgotten her initial flirtation with him upon their very first meeting.  
  
“Same here. It’s been a while since we’ve conducted business. I’d like to introduce my companion, Marius Black. Marius, Alchemist Esmee Brun, she’s our guide today,” he said. Marius nodded to her and they shook hands.  
  
They didn’t linger on pleasantries for long. Brun led them to a discreet location and asked for their hands. They disapparated a second later with a sharp crack.  
  
The subsequent landing happened in a hilly clearing, abundant with lush trees and underbrush, green and reddening from the summer season. From their point of elevation, he determined that they must be on the summit of a plateau as several dozen yards away, a rocky ledge fell away, and in front of them laid a vast ocean stretching across the horizon. It was still mid-morning and the sun was rising to his right which he determined was east, and he realized he was staring at the Black Sea. He said so aloud and Esmee nodded in confirmation.  
  
“Is that Galatia?” Marius asked. Marek turned in the direction he was pointing, and there at the bottom of the hill was the presumed village of Galatia, spread out across a little valley tucked between hills.  
  
Brun led them toward the village, which he thought to be larger than the village of Hogsmeade. He guessed the population had to be nearly a thousand souls strong. The village was surrounded by natural defenses; the Black Sea to the north, sloping hills bracketing it from the east, and rocky terrain with sharp gaps in the earth in the west. The only access to the village by land appeared to a corridor in the south between two hills, and he watched curiously as a car used the path to depart from the village. A car, which meant the presence of other muggles. Esmee pointed out the boundaries of the Little Galatia and spoke of its history as they walked.  
  
"Galatia might seem like a large wizarding village to you and that’s because it is. There are magical wards concealing hundreds of miles and miles of the surrounding land. It's remote and the indigenous people here have always been fairly isolationist; it doesn't mean they don't get visitors. Hundreds of wizards and witches visit every year to study under apprenticeships or employ a member of the temple or look for cures and metals only an alchemist wizard or witch can produce."  
  
"It seems very populated for a wizarding village,” he settled for saying.  
  
"That because it's not just a wizarding village, there are muggles that live here," she explained, glancing at them. "Indigenous to the region. They know about magic, see it, live with it...make use of it. This is a village of muggles and wizards coexisting together."  
  
He saw Marius doubletake from the corner of his eye, an echo of his surprise.  
  
"What you mean like muggles, as in muggles families that are muggleborns or halfbloods right?" Asked Marius with a frown.  
  
She looked amused for a second before her face smoothed over.  
  
“No, I mean like how things used to be centuries ago. When stories like the Hopping Pot weren’t merely stories but reality. Centuries ago, muggles and wizards coexisted together and unlike the rest of the world, Little Galatia has never stopped,” she said seriously.  
  
“How—you—what?”  
  
He interjected, cutting off the other man’s stumbling.  
  
“…I think what Marius is trying to ask is why the statute of secrecy isn’t being enforced?”  
  
She shrugged unconcernedly.  
  
“You’re assuming it was upheld in the first place. This isn’t Britain or Europe, or the Americas; the witch hunts simply never took place in here…if it eases your mind there is a geas embedded in the village’s very foundation,” she said.  
  
“So in a way, the statute is enforced after all,” he said. Marius didn't look mollified with her words. Esmee shrugged.  
  
“I can’t tell you much about it, to be honest, you’ll have to ask Master Khaldune. He's native to this place and so knows Galatia’s history better than anyone. All I know is that the geas restricts certain things from being said outside of the borders of the village, not that anyone who was born here would reveal anything. The people down there—”  
  
She pointed toward the village.  
  
“wizard or muggle, can trace their lineage back to before Mehmed the Conqueror’s arrival. All of them can tell you who their closest magical relative is and most of them have always lived in this land. They've been intermarrying with wizards and witches for generations and so the awareness of magic continued to live on.”  
  
“Isn't the ministry alerted every time the exposure meter rises? Surely, they must know," Marek asked.  
  
“That instrument isn’t very precise. Galatia’s inhabitants are on magical land under the protection of strong wards. If the ministry’s detecting magic, it’s the magic that’s always been here. And since the collapse of the Ottoman empire less than twenty years ago, they haven't been nearly as strong as they were before. I imagine they're still reorganizing and have more pressing concerns than a remote little village that hasn't changed in the last thousand years it's been here."  
  
She gestured in front of her as they paused in front of a stone marker at the boundary of the village.  
  
“Welcome to Little Galatia,” she said merrily.  
  
They entered a moment later considerably more curious to learn all of what Galatia had to offer.  
  


* * *

  
Dakin watched as Canmore and Black left with the blonde woman. He tailed them for a while until they disappeared into a dark alcove and he heard the sharp crack of a disapparation. His face became shadowed with displeasure and he thinned his lips. For some time, he remained unmoved from his position as he considered following after them. He knew where they were going. It had been plainly from the beginning where Canmore was headed and he wondered if the man’s budding interest in alchemy was his own or Parousia’s influence.  
  
Protocol dictated that he allow Canmore to function unhindered and that included letting him make his own decisions—as a way to quicken his growth. Not that the man needed much urging in the front place, thought Dakin. He'd eagerly embraced magic and developed a drive to learn all that could make him a competent wizard in the eyes of the magical world. When he relayed that to Parousia, the grandmaster had been pleased and called him promising. Canmore's initiative was a marked change from the weakness of the others that had come before him. From the beginning, Dakin had seen little need to “encourage” him further.  
  
Parousia needed a subject that was perceptive, resourceful, quick and clever, and more than adept at utilizing what they learned; similar qualities to the man himself in both character and soul resonance, which from what Dakin had observed, Canmore appeared to have in spades. The master had made no mention that Canmore could not seek out other alchemists, so Dakin let him do as he pleased.  
  
Although…he narrowed his eyes.  
  
Master Khaldune was no fool. If Canmore decided to ask the kinds of questions Dakin suspected he must be struggling to answer, then he could rouse Khaldune’s suspicion. The alchemist wizard may start poking his nose where it didn’t belong, and Dakin was extremely reluctant...to bring Parousia’s attention to the man that was helping Darius.  
  
His feelings of unease grew; a pang of disquiet that somewhat soured his joy of finally being in a position to see his family again. It drove him to distraction and paranoia, frustrating him. He could find no root of it than that dream that had left him ill and drained. What he'd seen...a phantom looming over him and hands closing around his neck. He’d been helpless to move his paralyzed arms to pry the fingers that squeezed the breath out of him. Disturbingly, it had worn Canmore’s face.  
  
He frowned, realizing that he’d let himself become distracted again and was dallying in the street. He began moving, letting his feet take him wherever but avoiding the people.  
  
He planned to visit Dakin and Amala soon, wearing his true face. Hopefully, that woman and Khaldune kept Canmore occupied for the rest of the day, lest he return early and find his servant—he sneered—missing.  
  
He saw a shadow move on his right and then a hand curled around his elbow. He tensed before catching Sonaugh’s oily smirk and relaxing. The mercenary had disguised his blue hair and was garbed in the local garments. How much of that was an illusion, he did not know. Sonaugh stood close to him, intruding in his space and peering down at him. Dakin stiffened and irritably pulled himself out of the mercenary’s grasp.  
  
“I thought I told you not to show your face until we returned to Paris?” he said tartly, resuming his walk. The other man shrugged carelessly, falling into step with him.  
  
“I don’t take orders from you,” said Sonaugh without missing a beat. “Black will bite the dust when I come for him. I came to tell you that I found a rat sniffing around. Asked him politely if he could leave—I even said please—but he was protesting too much so I…killed him.”  
  
A frown was making its way on his face.  
  
“What rat?”  
  
“A Grindelwald boy.”  
  
Dakin nearly stumbled but caught his footing at the last second. Grimacing, he brooded over this new development. Grindelwald encroaching on their business was not ideal. There had been a war of shadows between him and Parousia as the man sought to spread his influence south in Africa, but it seemed to have slowed to a standstill as the dark wizard began to focus more of his efforts in Europe. On an old enemy—Dumbledore—Parousia had once told him. That Grindelwald was turning his attention south once more did not bode well.  
  
“Parousia will need to be informed,” he said absentmindedly.  
  
“Yeah, you tell your boss whatever you want. As long as Red Dawn gets paid,” he said and disappeared as silently as he'd come.  
  
Dakin sighed irately. He’d been looking forward to seeing his family, but it looked like he’d need to wait a little longer.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if I’m getting too historical. I’m still worldbuilding and trying to convey a sense and feel of the time period. Let me know if I've made a galling mistake in posting this chapter and don't hesitate to join me discord:https://discord.com/invite/E7pTzDh . Not that I do much on there but you can always leave suggestions and share ideas. All I can say that this point is a shoe is about to drop.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: much thanks to Vulthimer and Robolo42 for betaing this chapter. I don't own HP, only my OCs.

_“I have inside me the winds, the deserts, the oceans, the stars, and everything created in the universe. We were all made by the same hand, and we have the same soul.”_ _―_ _Paulo Coelho,_ [ _The Alchemist_ ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/4835472)

When Marek had met Master Khaldune two days before it had been rather underwhelming. However, the days following that meeting were anything but. Khaldune was a man past his prime in wizarding terms yet moved with enough poise and fluidity to be deceiving. He was short and greying, round in the middle and keen-eyed. In his plain blue and sand-colored robes, he had looked like nothing more than a harmless medicine man. Except Marek knew better than to underestimate people based on appearances, magical folk most of all.

Marek had expected to cajole and impress upon the alchemist to tell him all he knew about soul transmigration and alchemy, but Khaldune had merely taken his request with an enigmatic smile. He ushered him into the single-tiered dome temple and took him into a grand ceremonial hall, which as one would have imagined, was lined with statues, smooth pillars, and mosaiced walls.

The most striking piece of it that had immediately drawn his eyes was the intricate transmutation array painted in the center of the expansive floor. Khaldune had led him toward a large mural at the forefront of the room where just above, planted into the wall two meters from where the ceiling began to curve, was a round ornamented glass window. It glimmered with gems and stained the natural light filtering through. 

The glass itself was bisected into four fragments, each with an alchemical symbol representing the four elements of which he was familiar. While he had studied the mural to discern it, Khaldune had spoken.

_"I will tell you, but I will also warn you. I am an alchemist. Naturally, we hold our secrets close and mask our work so they cannot be stolen. But I am also a teacher and knowledge is meant to be shared, not hidden, hoarded, or squirreled away to gather dust. That being said, neither is it meant to be abused or perverted. I will tell you what I know because I trust Esmee’s judgment and it is up to you to take from my teachings what you will.”_

_That was fair and more than generous, so Marek gave him a single nod to show his understanding._ _Khaldune stared at him intensely for a moment before humming, appearing satisfied._

_"Soul transmigration… you aren't one to ask simple questions, are you?"_

_Marek snorted._

_"If I came this far to ask simple questions, then I fear I've been reading an empty book all this time. I've tried to learn on my own but there is nothing like experiencing things for one's self or having someone to guide you. I appreciate your willingness to share your knowledge. All I can offer you is this in exchange, 'to teach is to learn twice over'."_

_Khaldune chuckled._

_"Indeed! That is good, you are wise to know your limitations. This should be stimulating for the both of us then. Hm, now alchemy. First, let me say that there is a purpose in studying alchemy beyond transmuting metals or heightening one’s connection to their magic or drawing circles out of runes. Those things are part of the work, but they are small when compared to the possibilities.”_

_“Like immortality?” he suggested. Khaldune dipped his head._

_“Just so… immortality has always been man’s greatest yearning. But there is something else even more desirable…at least to one such as I. Those of us who aspire to gain knowledge above all and wish to serve a greater purpose, we find the attainment of gnosis—or knowledge of the universe’s mysteries—most desirable. Where you wish for the former, you will not find the latter; where you wish for the latter, you are likely to find the former. As for how soul transmigration measures in…well, the idea is derived from Thothism.”_

_Khaldune led him toward a specific section of the mural where they stopped in front of a depiction Marek recognized: the image of an Egyptian god, his male form with the head of an ibis._

_"This is Thoth. I’m certain you are familiar with him," said Khaldune, gesturing to the artwork. "An Egyptian deity; the god of the moon, of reckoning, of wisdom, of learning; Creator of writing and languages, medicine, and magic! For Al'sahars, wizards, and mystics—whatever people want to call themselves—it is a long-held belief that he is the father of alchemy. For the Romans, he was the god Vulcan; for the Hellenics, Hermes Trimegistus; for the Chinese, Zao Jun, the 'Furnace Prince'—"_

_Marek watched as the alchemist palmed the head of the Thoth’s figure._

_“—archetypally, he is depicted as a man-god with the head of an ibis—"_

_Then Khaldune moved down and brushed his hand against the image of a baboon several feet away._

_"—and occasionally by a baboon. Both creatures are known to be highly intelligent… Ancient practitioners believed that Thoth gave man alchemy as a means for the worthiest of us to attain divinity. For this reason, alchemists endeavored upon the Magnum Opus—”_

_“The Great Work,” he whispered and Khaldune nodded._

_“Yes, yes. Within the guilds in Turkey, Egypt—especially so Egypt—and other Arab and African nations, this Thothist’s belief is prevalent.”_

_“Are you a Thothist?” he inquired curiously. Khaldune snorted, caressing his bearded chin._

_“Ha! I’m too much of a realist for that! I have no such faith that a god gave us alchemy to better ourselves. If there are gods, they are too distant and we are too foolish and selfish for that kind of mercy,” he said bemusedly. “Perhaps, I am being too cynical, but I am an old man and I have seen and heard much. Also, the Thothists I know are too extremist and purist for my tastes. Their reaching and grasping desire for something that is very likely a myth…”_

_He trailed off with a grimace and Marek waited eagerly. He fingered the golden dial he’d brought with him. Perhaps these Thothists were responsible for his being here._

_After a pause, Khaldune continued._

_“Unbending faith in myths tend to lead men down wretched paths; the kind that involves foul magic and perversion of the natural order of the world—”_

_Marek took that to mean that he knew someone who was on that path. He refrained from asking about the dial just yet._

_“—but I will admit that the progress they’ve made recently with that belief has some merit. We can at least agree that there is a modus that all alchemists must follow when conducting the magnum opus, one that theoretically should allow one to achieve a different state of living.”_

_“What do you mean?” he asked._

_“It is possible to uncover the prima materia, the sole matter, the chaos within you; that which whence the soul and body were created. All Things are of prima materia; all that is seen, all that is unseen, you and me, the sun and stars, the future and the past. There are four stages within the Magnum Opus that the alchemist must follow to uncover the primary matter, they are…”_

Nigredo, the blackening.

Albedo, the whitening.

Cintrinitas, the yellowing

And Rubedo, the reddening.

Aptly named by their distinctive chemical reactions and served to reflect the alchemist’s growth in his journey for transcendence.

Within nigredo, one cleansed and burned ingredients to render them down to a homogenous black matter, the prima materia. In the same respect, one looked within themselves to peel away the surface layers of their being, discarding emotions and thoughts, desires and needs. What was left was also the prima materia.

Khaldune said that Marek had entered the blackening stage from the moment he carved that first transmutation circle onto his basement walls some six months ago. He was an alchemist doing alchemy work, but he wasn’t attending to the spiritual aspect of it; the metaphysical search within himself to find his prima materia. Once he found it, he could begin to examine how it married his body to his soul. Once he’d realized that marriage, he could begin to feed the connection, strengthen it with his magic, and then…

The first time he saw Khaldune heal using alchemy, the alchemist had willingly cut off his own finger over a table. Incredulous, Marek watched as the man regenerated the lost limb using only the ingredients on the table and a matrix tattooed into the palm of his hand. He immediately asked Khaldune to teach him, short of demanding it.

He hadn’t attempted an amputation himself just yet. _That would have been foolish_. But the physician in him had sat up and paid attention. Khaldune had used basic elements to construct a limb for himself; he had replicated the body’s natural processes to make the regenerated limb functional; somehow he forced his body to accept this addition all within the span of a few moments. That spoke of his experience and skill.

To further echo the man’s philosophy, Khaldune showed him _how_.

He gleefully thought of how this learned ability could be applied to his personal projects. He was even more anticipatory of what else Khaldune could show him. There seemed to be an even more intrinsic layer to magic that he did not understand, its very nature in the fabric of the universe. How did magic bind everything? Why was it active in some and not in others? How did it account for irregularities—was he the only irregularity? —like him. He was disappointed that his stay would be brief. Short of another death, he didn’t think anything could make him regret this interlude in his journey.

It turned out that he’d spoken too soon, and he nearly ate those words a day later.

Nearly.

The day had started with another morning watching Esmee bring to life a white sculpting mold. She dropped the person-shaped mold within a flask, and then placed the flask within the center of a transmutation array on the ground. The homunculus charm, she said, allowed the marked subject to simulate the behaviors of its possessor.

He watched as she activated the array, twirling her wand and uttering the spell before pointing to the mold and then to herself. A filmy string appeared between them before dissipating. When she straightened, the little person straightened; when she paced the room, it performed the same motion.

“Fascinating,” he said, interest piqued. He was reminded of the Marauder’s map, inky footsteps mimicking that of their owners. _If I could replicate the map… there must be some advanced magic that could read magical signatures and determine the name of individuals._

Esmee shrugged off the compliment, flipping braid hair over her shoulder.

“Basic level animation. It is tied to me right now, so it can copy my motions.”

“Still… you can make it act independently upon a set of instructions. Can it think independently?”

“Yes, although the more implicit and numerous the instructions, the more difficulty it will have in performing its given task… and the shelving-life for this little one”, she gestured to the mold,” is short. It will start to decay in a week. If you wanted to take the animation a step further for an enhanced homunculus, most alchemists like to imbue the subject with their magical signature.”

She waved to the homunculus and it waved back.

“Like how a magical portrait will act and say things that their subject has. They carry the magical signature of the witch or wizard, even after they’ve died. If I do imprint upon this fellow in the same way, it will be able to perform simple tasks on its own. I can send it to do things for me but it will still be following _my_ instincts.”

She frowned.

“I suppose you mean if it could follow its own instincts?” she asked with a peek at him.

“Master Khaldune stressed that expecting any…humanistic qualities from a homunculus required endowing it with a soul…there’s no way to create a soul, you would need to get it elsewhere,” he said.

Esmee folded her arms.

“It's standard to use animals, harder to tame but they have instinct and decision-making abilities. There’s also the option of using a sliver of one’s own soul… which is not recommended,” she said. She narrowed eyes at him.

“And using the souls of other people isn’t just forbidden. Its anathema.”

“So it is,” he agreed. “I have no intention of doing such a thing.”

_Not yet at least, and certainly not until he knew more._

“But I suspect someone already has.”

Her eyes widened and she looked as though he’d just told her the sky was red.

“Who?” she demanded. He shrugged.

“Don’t know. All I know is that this,” he retrieved the golden dial from his robe pocket and handed it to her, “probably belonged to them. Do you know what this says?”

She took the coin and examined it closely.

“This is latin, it says here ‘immortalia maximo studio’. Immortality, the greatest pursuit,” she translated, before flipping it over. “Deûm maximam uictoriae…”

She paused, looking to him in puzzlement.

“...this says ‘godhood, the greatest victory’. I’ve heard this maxim before, it belongs to the Cairo guild."

 _Finally, a direction._ He peered at her with interest.

“Interesting. Could someone in the Cairo guild have created soul-based-homunculi?” he asked bluntly. Esmee hesitated momentarily.

“That is a serious crime to be accusing anyone without proof,” she said seriously. “…then again, I’ve heard rumors. Did Master Khaldune mention their ideology?”

At his nod, she said, “Ever since Nicholas Flamel created the philosopher’s stone, all the guilds have been attempting to replicate his work. To them, he’s like… like your _Merlin_ , better than Merlin even, because he proved that immortality was within their reach. At the Cairo guild, that is their sole focus and I have heard there were fanatics.”

She raised a single brow.

“Are you planning on visiting monsieur Canmore? You won’t be welcomed if you stick your nose in their business.”

“Do you know me to be careless? I don’t intend to accuse anyone thoughtlessly or at all.”

She relaxed.

“So this is why you are so interested in homunculus and transmigrating souls? You wanted to know what we told you matched what you knew about what this person has done?” she probed.

He nodded content to let her make her own assumptions. Although, it was time to change the subject.

“Will you show me the rest?” he asked, motioning to the homunculus.

For an instant, she seemed unwilling to drop the subject before huffing and turning back to the homunculus.

“It is not my business, but you ask for many favors, monsieur,” she hummed softly.

“Only because you are so generous Miss Brun,” he said serenely, holding her burning gaze. A coy smile made its way onto her lips as she resumed her work and he watched the way her dark hair brushed against her pale neck.

He had no delusions as to why she did him these favors. Esmee was neither a fanciful woman or naïve; she was in her thirties, she’d seen the way of the world. She helped him because it served her, a simple transaction. He’d given her the funds to start her own apothecary, invested in it by doing business with her, and now she was paying for it. It helped that she found him interesting and willing to let her teach him.

For a moment he humored thoughts of having her, but quickly dismissed them.

An hour later, they left the Learning Hall shortly before lunch. She led him toward a noisy gathering in the temple’s courtyard. There were about a hundred or so wizards in attendance, flowing around a setting of food filled tables and communal activities. He spotted Marius on a bench speaking to a dark woman and a small child.

Some distance from the arrangement was a dueling ring besieged by a decent crowd. In the ring two witches were exchanging spells in a flurry of colors, bangs, and snaps.

Esmee nudged him after the women had cleared the arena, proposing a duel. Seeing as he had no good reason to decline, he jumped at the chance to test his metal against someone that wasn’t a twelve-year-old and two feet shorter.

With anticipation, he entered the ring. From the corner of his eye, he saw Marius emerge from the crowd, grey eyes watching… _well, if it was like that, he couldn’t very well embarrass himself_. He didn’t think he’d win but he could at least make it look good.

He took out his wand and they bowed.

Then they were off in bang of exchanges and he immediately went on the defensive as Esmee unleashed a barrage of blasting hexes.

He quickly dodged a hex and his proto-shield came up.

_Esmee was fast!_

Then again, he was used to dealing with an untrained child or having mock duels with moving dummies who couldn’t fire back.

He gave his shield the green shade of death because something wicked in him told him so and smirked as the spells bounced off. A murmuring went up in the crowd as some straightened and others leaned forward at the display of wandless magic. A thrum of heady adrenaline rushed through him and he did nothing to smother the smile beginning to stretch his lips.

Esmee was surprised at the wandless maneuver but returned the smirk and then sent another barrage. She danced around him, trying to find a weak spot in the shield but all her spells fell off. Eventually, she began drawing her a matrix in the air with fast flicks of the wrist. He only had to see the symbol for earth before realizing what she would do.

He dropped part of the shield and pointed his wand.

 _“Fumos,”_ he called out.

It created a smokescreen spanning the length of the ring and he followed with _Telum Ejecto_. The spell unleashed a volley of arrows that disappeared into the smoke cloud.

He wasn’t able to see she fared against them, but then the next second the earth crumbled under his feet. He found himself sinking into shimmering sand that quickly trapped his boots as the matrix hit the ground in front of him. An earth-based array to transmute earth into quicksand.

 _Clever_. He would need to learn that.

A rush wind blew the smoke away to unveil Esmee.

“ _Expulso!”_ she cried out.

He was quick to throw his shield up again as the spell came at him.

He was unbalanced, trapped, and Esmee was now sending another shield penetrating charm at him. _Not that it would work._ The shield stayed in place, following his will and remaining strong. Vaguely, he felt a sense of pride that was quickly overshadowed by the need to extradite himself out of the sinking earth.

It was then, Wang Shu’s philosophy sprang to mind. The leading champion in the Grand Wizarding Dueling Circuit. What made the man a formidable duelist wasn’t his overt use of obscure magical chants, complex spells, or the ability to do pirouettes in the arena. Wang Shu left those notions to the fools concerned with showcasing their spellcasting rather than executing maneuvers for intelligent battle. Wang Shu stuck to basics; held onto them with an iron fist, to the point that many found it insulting.

_As if he was underestimating them._

They would try to goad and outdo him with intricacy, fox trotting across arenas like peacocks in their battle robes, throwing flashy bolts and making unnecessary noise. The Chinese wizard would respond by putting a spin on simple spells to beat them down and that was his strongest attribute. Simplicity was his friend and he stuck to what he knew.

So Marek sucked in a deep breath and shrunk the shield into an invisible arc wall. He sent it after Esmee with a mental push. To Esmee, it looked as though the protection around him had failed. As she went to curse him it slammed into her, sweeping her off her feet and throwing her several meters back. She landed with a shout and for a moment he worried he might have been too aggressive before she groaned and rolled over.

While she recovered, he used the few seconds afforded to him to extract himself out of the earth. His protective mold enveloped his body and pushed against the earth at his feet to create a gap. Once free, he barely managed to dodge as Esmee sent a powerful stinging hex in his direction. He was still caught in half the spell as it struck his left flank,

He hissed sharply, nearly tripping over the sand. _That was going to bruise_.

Gritting his teeth, he used his wand to deflect another one of her hexes, noting how she stumbled back inelegantly. _Still disorientated._

“Aqua erecto,” he called out.

What came next was neither a gentle stream nor puddle, but an eruption of fast-moving water as he imagined it, thanking Dumbledore for the idea. He sent it rolling her direction, attempting to miniaturize the cyclonic torrent that took Voldemort for a spin. The result was decent as he lacked control, but it served to distract her from sending another barrage of hexes at him as she moved to avoid it.

The next exchange sent them both flying out of the ring. Esmee unleashed a spell that created a series of blinding flashes in the air to temporarily blind him. A reckless maneuver given that blinded her as well. Many in the audience groaned and covered their eyes. She tried to follow with another gust of mobilized wind just as he threw up his shield to send another arc wall at her. It slammed into her again and he was too late dodge the wind as it lifted him in the air and threw him out of the arena. He landed with a grunt on the grass, irate and marginally disappointed.

A thunder of claps and laughter erupted from the crowd and multiple hands pulled him onto his feet. Pats and complements rained on his back as Marius appeared before him, grinning like a cat that got the cream.

“Impressive,” Marius crooned, clapping slowly. “That was thoroughly enjoyable.”

He tossed his head in Esmee’s direction where she was being healed by Master Khaldune.

“She literally swept off your feet, ey,” he snarked. Marek huffed in annoyance and clutched his bruised side.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he responded gruffly. As far as duels went, it had been a mostly fair one and the experience was good. He waved off the questions about his proto-shield and met up with Khaldune. The old, wizened alchemist regarded him with a considering gaze and slightly raised eyebrows. Marek barely held back a smile.

Khaldune healed him in a matter of moments and he relaxed as the pain faded. Then, the alchemist spoke.

“Remarkable shielding. I thought I sensed the echoes of your life force when you summoned it.”

“I didn’t exactly learn it the conventional way,” he replied. Khaldune hummed in the way he did when he found something Marek said to be interesting but made no comment.

Marek cast a _scourify_ on himself when the older alchemist finished healing him. Then he was swept away again by Esmee and Marius, this time toward the food.

They talked and ate and talked some more, until the crowd began dispersing and he realized he needed to prepare for their departure the next day. Somewhere in the middle of his conversation with Linas, another alchemist visiting from Istanbul, he felt the telltale burn of the watch on his wrist.

A signal that immediately caused him to straighten. Discreetly, he glanced down and it read six o’clock, a clear indication of danger. An indication that _Marius_ was in danger; had it been Tom, it would have read noon.

He did a quick skim around the vicinity and when he didn’t find Marius, he mentally cursed. He apologized to Linas before quickly striding away and casting the _point-me_ charm. When the wand pointed away from the temple and toward the village, he knew Marius had returned to their room at the inn.

He cursed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> That quote 'to teach is to learn twice' belongs to Joseph Joubert
> 
> Join me on discord: https://discord.com/invite/E7pTzDh


End file.
